Harrenhal was a monument. Its walls were one hundred feet high if they were ten, and stretched out far enough that Steve could compare it favourably to some of the ancient wonders from his own world. He could just see the tops of five enormous towers rising from within, the heights of which were bent and melted as if subjected to some great heat. It overlooked the great lake called ‘Gods Eye’, and had apparently been built by some tyrant before the Targaryens had conquered the continent. Whatever else it was, Steve figured it was grand enough to host what was being called the greatest tournament in the history of Westeros.

He could definitely see it being called the busiest. It was still three days before the official start and the closer they had gotten to the castle, the busier the roads had become. Lone knights, hopeful peasants, tradesmen coming to ply their wares, even minor nobles and their retinues, all had fairly clogged the roads to Harrenhal. Right of way and passage had become a hotly contested topic between parties, and Naerys, Robin, and Toby had found themselves in shouting matches with too-slow merchants and nobles demanding they get out of the way. One memorable occasion had seen Steve unload on a particularly infuriating noble with full Brooklyn fury, the colourful language earning hoots from those close enough to hear and possibly the lifelong enmity from the noble in question. But they had made it, and with time to spare. They stood in line at the main gates of the castle, waiting for those ahead to be checked and permitted entry. Steve couldn’t see his group being turned away, but it would be awkward if they had to wait outside until he could get Barristan to give a good word for them.

Finally, it was their turn, and they approached the guards manning the gate, Steve leading the way, Naerys, Kedry and Toby ahorse behind him, while Robin drove the cart at the rear. Even from outside, he could see the murder holes in the tunnel leading through the wall. He wouldn’t want to be the one tasked with taking this castle. Unless he had artillery, that is.

The guards took them in at a glance; five fine horses, a cart of possessions, and led by a man in armour the likes they’d never seen before.

“M’lord, welcome to Harrenhal on behalf of Lord Whent,” the apparent spokesman said. “If we could have your name and business here.”

“Lord America, here to enter the tournament,” Steve said. By all that was holy, Tony and Buck could never know.

“And this is the extent of your retinue, m’lord?” the man asked, looking them over. There was a hint of recognition in his eyes.

“This is all of us,” Steve said. He noticed a young man in robes taking notes behind the guards, a short chain hanging around his neck.

“Then be welcome in these lands for so long as you conduct yourself as a guest,” the guard said. He waved them through.

Steve nudged Fury forward, passing into the shadow of the great curtain wall. They had made it to Harrenhal.

X x X

Even after passing through the castle walls and emerging into the grounds proper, he still felt like he was outside the structure, the interior was that big. The grounds were expansive, to say the least, and the towers rose to dizzying heights. Hell, they might even be as tall as Avengers Tower. And the towers were just the start of it. To the right, what smelt like a huge stable stretched out along the wall they had just passed through, while to the left were a cluster of buildings that rang with the clash of metal on metal; a smithy and an armoury at the least.

“This place is bleedin’ huge,” Toby said, piping up from behind Steve.

“You could likely hold the entire tourney within its walls,” Kedry said. He wore his helm, obscuring his features.

“Three days before the tourney, and already there’s a small town grown,” Naerys said, nodding towards the outer ward of the castle. Between the stables and the towers was what was once open ground, but was now filled with tents and temporary structures of varying size and quality.

“Looks like that’s where we’re pitching camp,” Steve said, and he began to lead the way over, following a path worn into the dirt from gate to tent town.

Without speaking, Toby trotted past on his horse, scouting ahead.

“Better than some of the towers,” Kedry said. He frowned at his ward, but did not call him back.

“Why’s that?” Steve asked.

“They say they’re haunted by the victims of the castle’s curse,” Kedry said. “Ever since Harren Hoare built it, this has been a place of ill omen.”

“You seem familiar with its history,” Naerys said.

“Just what everyone knows,” Kedry said.

Steve guided Fury around a pair of men lugging a heavy crate, taking in the small town. It seemed that this was the place for the less powerful and affluent to set up for the tournament, and that was fine by him. Despite not being the first to arrive, there were still plenty of choice spots to set up their tent.

“You sure you don’t want to set up a room in the tent, Kedry?” Steve asked. “There’s more than enough room.”

Kedry looked over the mass of tents. There were main paths separating the rows of dwellings, but that was about as organised as it got. Hedge knights were camped next to merchants next to tradesmen. “I think I will take you up on that offer,” he said. “Privacy seems like it might be hard to come by otherwise.”

Toby came trotting back. “Found a good spot on the other end of the camp, by this ol’ ruined building. Think it’s a sept or sommat, but no one wants to camp near it.”

“Any objections?” Steve asked. None were forthcoming, so they followed Toby as he wheeled around to lead the way. As they went, Steve ran his eye over the other occupants of the camp. Many bore the signs of hard living, and those hedge knights he saw wore armour little better than what Kedry had borne before it had finally given up.

Of the five great towers, only two of them seemed to see any use. He supposed the royals and greater nobles would be housed there when they arrived. The rest seemed to be ashen and decayed, the shadows cast by them somehow darker.

“Here we go,” Toby said.

They had arrived at a patch of still green grass, away from the well trod paths that wound around the rest of the camp. Their nearest neighbour was some thirty feet away, others almost seeming to shy away from the ruined sept - or perhaps the spectre of the ruined tower behind it. A cold wind swept through them.

“Isn’t this place supposed to be haunted?” Robin said from the cart.

Steve snorted. “Come on, let’s get settled in. Then we can have a look around.”

The cart was pulled into place, and the horses tied to it with access to feed. Setting up the pavilion tent was done quickly with the ease of practice, and in short order they had their own rooms portioned off within it, along with a sort of receiving room at the entrance that Naerys insisted on.

“First time I’ve had a room to meself,” Toby said, as he darted into the ‘room’ he had claimed.

Steve grinned at the kid’s excitement. Now that they were set up, he could see about exploring the place.

“We’ve got three days until the tournament starts,” Steve said, gathering his companions to him in the receiving room. “In that time I want to get Kedry and Toby outfitted, gather information about the tournament, and explore the castle grounds.” Toby opened his mouth to say something. “Oh, and I’ll get you to take care of the horses Toby, find a stable for them.” Toby closed his mouth.

“We should restock our supplies before this place is overrun with nobles,” Naerys said. “If it comes down to it, the merchants might give them preference.”

“We can do that,” Steve said. “Kedry, Robin, any suggestions?”

Kedry shook his head, and Robin shrugged. “The tavern?” the kid suggested. “You said you’d get me a drink.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Naerys, you might as well take Toby with you to get him outfitted. Kedry and I will find a blacksmith, and Robin can watch our tent.”

“I really don’t need new clothes,” Toby said.

Steve eyed the boy’s worn and thinning clothes dubiously. Far as he could tell, the kid had been cycling the same pair of clothes ever since Brindlewood, whether he found a stream to wash them in or not. “Let’s agree to disagree and say you do,” he said, and Toby looked mutinous.

“He’ll accept your generosity if he knows what’s good for him,” Kedry said, staring at his ward.

Toby muttered to himself, sulking, but to Steve’s eye he seemed pleased under his put-upon air.

“Alright,” Steve said. “We’ll meet back here in an hour, and go from there.”

They made to depart, leaving Robin behind. The kid already looked bored, sinking down to the tent floor.

“How about a kitten?” he called after them. “Or a w--”

The tend flap closed, dulling his voice, and they went their separate ways, Steve and Kedry to the smithy he had spied back over by the main southern gate, while Naerys with Toby took the horses towards the large stables.

When they arrived, they found not just a smithy, but a series of them, all aflame and busy with work in a building that ran along the wall behind it. Apprentices were turning out horseshoes, while masters hammered out swords and armour, while assistants scurried about taking the products of their work to a nearby building that ran perpendicular to the smithy. To Steve’s eye, there was nothing here that matched the work he had seen at Tobho Mott’s shop in King’s Landing, but the work seemed quality enough.

“Have you thought about what armour you wanted?” Steve asked. “I’ve never used your kind before.” He tapped the blue chestpiece of his suit.

Kedry surveyed the armour on display before the forges. “I’m for the joust, so a certain standard is needed, but…”

“Don’t worry about the price,” Steve said. “I’ve got just under 80 gold dragons, and I’ll soon have much more.”

“How about some of that half plate?” Steve said. “That and a shield, plus that helm you’re wearing will do you for the tournament, and I don’t imagine you’d want to get a full plate set that wasn’t made specifically for you.”

Kedry nodded slowly. “You raise a good point. What winnings I earn will cover a fine set of armour.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Steve said. “I’ll cover it.”

“My lord is generous.”

“It’s only money,” Steve said. “C’mon, let’s see that smith.”

They approached a man who was just quenching a sword, and he looked up as they neared. “Armour?” he asked.

“Half plate,” Kedry said.

“Replacement?” the smith asked. “Already?”

“Bandits on the road,” Kedry said.

“Anything else?”

“A shield.”

“Won’t be no heraldry,” the smith warned, glancing at the star on Steve’s chest.

Kedry hesitated, but Steve spoke up. “That’s fine,” he said. “So long as it keeps him alive through the joust.”

“Aye, it’ll do that,” the smith said. “It’d be our heads if we made shoddy steel for this tourney.” He whistled, and an apprentice came running. “Finish this off boy, and show me your work before you send it off to the Armoury.” The boy took it and left, and the smith looked Kedry over assessingly. “Let’s get you fitted up.”

The armour fitting ended up taking the better part of an hour, and Steve left them to it, instead choosing to watch and listen as new arrivals trickled steadily through the gate and guests went every which way. He picked up a few things, such as that the Lord Paramounts and the royals weren’t expected until the day before the tournament started, rumours of the field being limited to knights and nobles, and that the King himself was expected to make an appearance, his first in months outside the Red Keep. He even saw a few hedge knights casting surreptitious glances at him, as well as the star symbol on his chest.

“Did you want to get anything for Toby?” Steve asked, as he thought the fitting might be coming to an end.

“A spear, perhaps,” Kedry said. “I had thought to begin teaching him the glaive.”

“That’d be good for him,” Steve said. “Might use up some of his energy.”

Kedry gave a mirthless laugh. “No more reason is needed, truely.”

“We’re done here ser, m’lord,” the smith said. “Do you require a servant to carry the armour?”

“Nah, I’ve got it,” Steve said. “Just box it up for me.”

The smith hesitated, but only for a moment. “As you say, m’lord.” He left to find a crate.

Steve noticed Kedry staring at him. “Something on my face?”

Kedry gave a short exhale, and shook his head. “Nothing, Steve.”

The smith returned, and began crating the armour up.

“How much was that?” Steve asked.

“Five gold dragons, m’lord.”

Steve unclipped one of the pouches at his belt, and produced the gold. “Thanks.”

The gold disappeared into the smith’s own belt. “Of course, m’lord. Seven favour you in the tourney.” He disappeared back into the smithy proper.

“To the tent?” Kedry asked.

“To the tent,” Steve confirmed. They’d gotten all they came for.

X x X

The rest of the day saw the group take care of their errands, settling into their camp for the next two weeks and familiarising themselves with their surroundings. Steve went for a walk around the castle grounds that took him most of the day, but he took his artbook with him, and when he came back, he had filled a page with his observations. Some might have called it suspicious behaviour, but he just didn’t want to get lost on the sprawling grounds.

The hour was growing late when he returned, and all were gathered at their tent.

The remaining time until the start of the tournament passed quickly, but not so quickly that they couldn't take the time to enjoy themselves at the Hunter’s Hall, a building near the gates that had been repurposed into a tavern. It was there that Naerys made good on her promise to make money off of Steve, by luring the unwary into contests of strength with him. Several drinks in, Kedry and Robin got in on the action, each winning a modest amount of gold of those who thought themselves tough enough. There was more gold to be won, but there was no need to make enemies, and everyone had fun in the end, even those who regretted testing themselves against the man who was whispered to have slain the Smiling Knight with a single punch.

Through the evening, Steve spoke with many hopeful hedge knights, and managed to discover the schedule for the tournament. The ten days to come were laid out thus:

First Day, Welcoming Feast

Festivities

Melee

Joust

Joust and Horse Race

Joust and Axe Throwing

Joust and Archery

Melee Final

Joust Finals, Victor Celebration Feast

Festivities, Departure Feast

The night ended almost as Steve expected, with Naerys coercing him into a song once again, and himself somehow leading a pub full of drunk knights and men at arms in a rousing rendition of ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ to raucous cheers. The next day passed quickly, and so did the one after, and then it was time. The Tournament had come.

X x X

The first day of the Tournament at Harrenhal broke bright and clear, without a cloud in the sky. The air seemed to hum with the anticipation of the hundreds who had come to try their luck, all dreaming of the victory that would see their lives changed forever.

Breakfast was quiet, shared as it was around the small campfire they had established by the entrance to their tent. The tent town had grown over the past days, but they still had a comfortable amount of room to themselves, few wishing to camp too close to the ruined sept.

“I heard a rumour that they’re restricting the joust,” Robin said.

Kedry’s mouth set itself in a thin line, but he said nothing.

“How so?” Steve asked.

“Sers and nobles only,” Robin said. “Only got it from a hedge knight though.”

Steve frowned. He wasn’t much one for keeping others out arbitrarily, and Kedry was a fine enough warrior. He’d see what he could do. “We’ll work it out,” he said. “Still want to try your luck at the archery, Robin?”

“No luck needed,” Robin said. “That purse is mine, I’m sure of it.” His grin was quick to accompany his words.

“How about you, Naerys? Up for the melee?” Steve asked.

Naerys rolled her eyes, a habit she’d picked up from him. “I’ll put you down for the tourney of singers,” she warned him.

Steve winced, remembering the night at the tavern. “I think I’ve done enough singing for now.”

“I want to try the horse race,” Toby said suddenly.

“You’re sure?” Kedry asked, fixing him with a stare.

Steve held his tongue, sensing there was more to this than was obvious.

Toby nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’ll be a tough race, but I can do it.”

“If you’re sure,” Kedry said, apparently satisfied.

“I’ll ride Qēlos,” he said, naming one of Kedry’s other horses. “She’s a good ‘un.”

They finished breakfast, and it was as they were cleaning up that a ripple seemed to pass through the tent town, heads turning and whispers rising. There seemed to be some manner of clamour at the gates. Voices were excited, but not worried.

“Check it out?” Steve asked the others.

“I’ll stay here to watch the tent,” Robin said with a sigh.

“No, I’ll do it,” Kedry said.

Steve gave Kedry a nod in thanks. The four of them set off, joining the people streaming towards the gate in search of spectacle. On their arrival, there was already quite a crowd, but not so great that Steve couldn’t see what was happening.

The King had arrived.

He did not look well, and by the murmurs of the crowd around him, Steve could tell they agreed.

“He’s gone downhill in the last month,” Steve said.

“Seven Above,” Naerys breathed. “He must have pulled himself together for the feast at the Keep. That’s…who’s that before him?”

Steve squinted. “I think that’s Jaime.”

“What’s going on?” Toby asked. “Can’t see nothing.”

“Here,” Steve said, taking Toby under his arms and hoisting him up onto one shoulder. “Steady?”

Toby squirmed for a moment. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Is he-” Robin asked.

“He is!” Naerys answered.

Steve almost questioned them, but then he saw Jaime kneel before the King, and then Ser Gerold Hightower was stepping forward, sword in hand.

“The Kingsguard! Isn’t he younger than me?” Robin said.

The crowd was quiet and still as Jaime knelt, but the moment he began to rise, cheers erupted. Steve couldn’t see the kid’s face from where he was, but he saw Aerys raise his arms up in response to the crowd’s cheers. Somehow, Steve didn’t think they were for him. He saw the King speak with Jaime briefly, before he began to move deeper into the castle grounds and towards the towers. The crowd parted before the monarch and his retinue, but Jaime was left behind.

Steve returned Toby to the ground and turned to the others. “I’m going to congratulate Jaime.”

“We’ll return to the tent,” Naerys said. “The event registrations are due to open soon, so we’ll prepare for that.”

“I’ll see you back there,” Steve said, and then he was threading his way through the crowd, keeping sight of Jaime by his golden armour and the new white cloak that adorned it. The kid was walking slowly, like he’d just been hit, and so Steve was able to catch up with him just as he reached what must be his tent. “Jaime!” he called.

Jaime turned at the voice, and blinked when he saw who it was. “Lord America.”

“Thought you called me Steve,” Steve said.

“Yes, of course,” Jaime said, but he was obviously preoccupied.

“I wanted to congratulate you on your promotion,” Steve said. “Your appointment to the Kingsguard, I mean.”

A sardonic smile twisted his mouth. “Yes, a great honour.”

Steve frowned. “You’re not happy.”

“I have been ordered to return to King’s Landing,” Jaime said.

“...after the tournament?”

“‘With utmost haste’,” Jaime said. “The Queen and Prince need protecting.”

Steve glanced about. The lane of the tent town wasn’t empty, but nor was it busy. “Maybe we should speak inside.”

“Be welcome in my tent, short lived as it was,” Jaime said, leading the way inside.

Within was a level of opulence Steve wasn’t expecting. Rich crimson tapestries hung on the canvas walls, and the receiving area of the tent was appointed with the kind of furniture Steve had seen in his room at the Red Keep.

“He’s depriving you of the chance to compete,” Steve said.

“So he is.”

“You can’t talk him round?” Steve asked.

Jaime gave him a disbelieving look. “The King? I was only appointed because -” he cut himself off.

“You know, I was wondering,” Steve said. “I thought Kingsguard couldn’t inherit.”

“They can’t,” Jaime said, throwing himself into a cushioned chair.

“Aren’t you your father’s heir?”

“I was, yes,” Jaime said. “But then that suits Aerys just fine.”

“Your father is the Prime--the Hand of the King, right?” Steve asked.

“He quit when the King told him he was going to appoint me,” Jaime said. “I didn’t understand why.” He inspected the white cloak that Hightower had given to him. “I didn’t earn this. He did it to slight my father, and rob him of his heir.”

“That seems...spiteful, and shortsighted,” Steve said. “And those are two poor qualities for a ruler to have.”

Jaime glanced at Steve sharply, but said nothing.

“But I don't think it matters why you were given that cloak. It’s yours now,” Steve continued, “and it’s what you do with it that will define who you are, not whose heir you were.”

“There are those who would disagree with you,” Jaime said.

“You might guard him, but you do not have to be him,” Steve said. “Being a Kingsguard doesn’t have to mean changing who you are.”

“And who am I?” Jaime asked, challenged, him. There was something dark behind his eyes.

“You’re a good kid,” Steve said. “And you’re a knight of Westeros.”

Jaime blinked.

“Think on it,” Steve said.

“I’ll have time,” Jaime said. “It’s a long ride to King’s Landing.”

“Maybe I’ll drop in on you there sometime,” Steve said.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Jaime said. He stood up. “Steve...I appreciate your words.”

“Don’t stress it,” Steve said. “I’ll catch you around, Jaime.” He turned and left the tent, leaving the young knight to consider his words.

Jaime Lannister stared at the tent flap for a long time.

X x X

Steve returned to his own tent to find his companions waiting to depart. Robin was fiddling with his bow, while Robin and Naerys watched the people go by. Kedry was clad in his new half plate, helm concealing his face. The plate was nothing fancy, but it was serviceable, and looked to be decently made.

“Ready to make our mark?” Steve said.

“More than,” Robin said, jumping to his feet. “How are we doing this?”

“Seems like registering will take a lot of waiting in line, so how about we split up, sign up for the events we want, and then meet up outside the Hall?” Steve said. The Hunter’s Hall, the tavern from the previous nights, had been repurposed as the place for scribes to take down the names of all those who wished to participate.

“Aye,” Kedry said, hesitating only briefly. “I’ll go with Toby to sign up for the horse race, though.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “Everyone got their buy in?”

Kedry, Robin, and Toby nodded. Their gambling had roughly doubled what pay they had received from Steve, and they had all insisted on paying their own entry.

“They’ll explain the rules to us, right?” Steve checked.

“It’s tradition to, before the event,” Kedry said.

“Great,” Steve said. “Let’s go.”

Hunter’s Hall, by the main gate of the castle, was besieged by warriors. They carried no ladders, most were unarmoured, and they stood in orderly lines, but besieged it they did. There were five lines snaking around the yard before the tavern, but all passed through the wide double doors that were the main entrance.

“Which do you suppose is which?” Steve asked.

“That will be the joust,” Kedry said, pointing at a line mostly full of men-at-arms wearing the tabards of their Lords, some holding a roll of parchment in hand. Here and there through the line were knights, but for the most part it spoke of an event whose participants were too important to enrol themselves. “The others I couldn’t say.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Steve said. “See you after.”

Kedry and Toby took their place at the back of the jousting line, while Steve and Robin headed for the tavern. As they walked, some already in line sent them looks, but made no comment. They ducked through the wide doors, and took in the room.

The tables and chairs that had filled the floor on their previous visits were gone, and a single long table sat before the bar on the opposite wall. At the table sat scribes, and behind them were standards bearing the symbols of the events - lance, sword, axe, bow, and horse - in the colours of the hosts; black and yellow. A pair of men-at-arms stood at either end of the table.

“That’s you,” Steve said, nodding towards the archery line. “You good?”

“Yep. Real good,” Robin said quickly, almost bouncing on his feet.

Nerves, excitement, or a bit of both? Steve clapped him on the shoulder, and they made for the ends of their respective lines.

As Steve joined the line, he got more looks, but these were of confusion. He shrugged them off. He might not be wearing his suit or carrying his shield, but he was still pretty clearly a ‘noble’. Maybe they weren’t used to seeing one wait in line.

The line passed slowly, steadily. Steve listened to the talk of the men around him, but did not join in. Apparently, two men named Lord Robert and Lord Yohn were even favourites to win the melee, but every man seemed to think they could unhorse them, if only they could catch them at the right moment. There was gossip about which Kingsguard was most likely to win the joust, and of the rumoured beauty of a woman called Lady Dayne. In quieter, more furtive tones, they also spoke about the appearance of the King, but they did not linger on the topic, and if they did they were quickly shushed by their fellows.

Steve was nearly at the doors, near an hour later, when he heard disgruntled muttering behind him. He glanced back to see a man in a fine doublet strutting past those in line, a servant at his heels, his destination clearly the tavern. Steve eyed him as he drew nearer.

“...waiting in line is for those without proper breeding,” the noble said. “I could have had you wait for hours, so don’t say I command too much of you!”

Steve let him pass, staring at him out the side of his eye like most of the other men around him. A bit of friendly advice on manners wouldn’t have gone wrong, but for all that he was a ‘noble’ here, he wasn’t Captain America, and it just wasn’t worth the hassle. He did take note of the man’s colours and symbol, though.

The line dragged along, until eventually, Steve found himself at the front. The scribe, a balding older man, looked up at him, bored and impatient at the same time.

“Name?” the man asked.

“Lord America,” Steve said.

“For the melee, yes?” the scribe asked.

“That’s right.”

“Which side will you be joining?”

Steve frowned. “I’m sorry, ‘side’?”

The scribed sighed. “The melee is a seven sided event in the ancient style. You must nominate a side to join for the beginning. You are expected to act with due chivalry with regards to your chosen side.”

“What are my options?” Steve asked.

“Crownlands, Stormlands, Reach, Westerlands, Riverlands, Vale, Dorne,” the scribe said. He held up a hand. “Don’t complain to me that you can’t nominate the North or the Iron Islands, I don’t make the rules.”

“I’ll go with the Crownlands,” Steve said. He didn’t have any particular preference, so going with the state of the royal house seemed like a good bet to avoid getting involved in any grudges or feuds.

“Very well,” the scribe said, writing his choice down next to his name. “Do you wish to hear the rules?”

“Yes thank you,” Steve said.

The scribe held in another sigh. “Cost of entry is one gold dragon. The initial melee is to take place over a full day, two days hence, in a designated section of woods and fields outside the castle. Each side will start in their own corner. If you are unhorsed, you are not required to yield, but neither is your opponent required to dismount. On your honour, you must abide by all ransoms. This is not a fight to the death,” he said sternly. “When sufficient participants have been eliminated, a halt shall be called by three horn blasts, and the finals shall be held on the eighth day of the tournament within the castle grounds. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Steve said.

“Please make your mark here,” the scribe said, offering him both a quill and an inkpot.

From what Steve could see, many before him had simply inked their thumbs and then pressed them to the parchment, but there were also seals of red ink and the occasional name scrawled untidily. Steve took up the quill, unused to the implement, and carefully wrote his name in English, before retrieving a gold coin from his pouch and handing it over.

The scribe glanced at it for a moment, before nodding. “Thank you.” He was already gesturing for the next man in line to come forward before Steve had started moving away.

Steve eyed the line for the axe throwing. Well, watching it wouldn’t make it move any faster.

X x X

The better part of an hour later, Steve emerged from the tavern, having signed up for the events he needed to. If anything, the axe throwing line had been longer than the melee despite having a lesser prize. Maybe it was the lower skill and cost requirement. Five thousand gold coin in winnings was still nothing to sneeze at.

As he looked around, he noticed Kedry and Toby nearby, heading back to the tent town. Toby was scowling ferociously, and Kedry didn’t look well pleased either, as they discussed something in low tones. Stepping quickly, Steve caught up to them.

“...it’s done, and that’s all there is to it,” Kedry said.

“There’s gotta be other ways,” Toby said. “Y’ can’t just -” he clammed up, seeing Steve approach. “M’lord.”

Steve felt a flash of concern. Maybe he should have stuck with them. “How did you go?” he asked. “They didn’t knock you back, did they? We can go back and talk to them.”

“Thank you for your concern, but no, I was able to register,” Kedry said. He met Steve’s eyes squarely.

“So it was a false alarm on the field being limited?” Steve asked.

“It was not a problem,” Kedry said.

“It were robbery, is what it was,” Toby interrupted. “Gold dragon just to enter?” He spat to the side.

“The melee was the same,” Steve said. “Three moons for the axe throwing.”

“And the horse race,” Kedry added. “But I suppose that won’t be an issue, once you’ve won the melee,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“We won’t be going hungry, that’s for sure,” Steve said. “Come on, let’s head back to the tent. Robin should be back there already.”

They made for their home for the time being, the first small hurdle of the tournament overcome. Seems like he’d been worrying over nothing.

X x X

“Well, we’ve got the rest of the day until the welcoming feast,” Steve said. “Does anyone have anything they want to do?”

They had reconvened in the receiving room of the tent. Naerys had purchased some cheap chairs and a low table while she was buying what they needed for Kedry and Toby, so the entry area was no longer a barren room.

“‘M gonna see the horses,” Toby said. “Don’t trust th’ grooms t’ do th’ job.”

“I think I’ll take Redbloom for a ride,” Kedry said. “He gets ornery if stabled for too long.”

“I can watch the tent if you want to go out, Naerys,” Robin said.

“That’s fine, but thank you,” Naerys said. “But...if you could bring me some ink and parchment, I’d be grateful.”

“I’ve got some in my pack you can use,” Steve said. He held up a hand to forestall her protests. “Might as well use it. When I need more you can buy me some.”

“I might get some practise in at the butts then,” Robin said. “That prize isn’t going to win itself.”

“The archery butts are at the training yard, right?” Steve asked.

“Think so,” Robin said.

“I’ll go with you, see if I can’t scope out some of the competition. Want to have a go at that steel bow?” Steve asked.

“I tried to draw it before Da sold it and nearly threw my shoulder out,” Robin said, wincing. “I’ll give it a miss.”

“Fair,” Steve said. “See everyone back here say, two hours before sunset?”

They all gave their agreement, and gathered what they needed before going their separate ways. Kedry and Toby for the stables, Steve and Robin for the training yards that sat amidst the towers.

The castle grounds were busier that day, filled with last minute arrivals and contestants eager to register for their events. The tent town was growing, but still few were quick to set up as close to the ruined sept as their party.

“Do you think people see it as a bad omen?” Steve asked, nodding towards the ruin.

“I suppose so,” Robin said. He carried his bow over one shoulder, a quiver of arrows with it. He lowered his voice. “My family never had much time for septs and septons.”

“Why’s that?” Steve asked. From what he had seen, atheism wasn’t all that common - or accepted - in this place.

“Da always says there’s not much faith to be found in the Faith,” Robin said. “That they’re just another lot out for themselves and their pockets.”

They walked in silence as Steve pondered his words. His faith had always been a personal thing, often tumultuous and nothing like what the myth of himself would have people believe. Some of the groups asking him for a statement of support after New York had been given a shock, that was for sure. Turns out, growing up without a father, losing his Ma, and then witnessing the extent of what he had naively called Germany’s ‘bullying’ made it easy to question his religion .

“I know my god is different to yours,” Steve said, “but something that helped me was remembering that God and the church are two differing things. Septons can be bad people just as easily as anyone else.”

“But the High Septon is the avatar of The Seven,” Robin said.

“Says who?” Steve said.

“Well...the Faith of The Seven,” Robin said.

“If they’re only out to line their pockets, why believe them?” Steve asked. “Your faith is between you and your God. If a septon comes along and tells you the gods command you to kill a man, would you?”

“Well, no.”

“There you go. If you want to believe, that’s between you and your God. All too often, priests have their own agenda.”

Robin frowned, deep in though. “I suppose.”

Steve watched him as they continued on their way, passing under the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. It wasn’t the first time he’d talked with someone about their faith, but Robin’s issue seems a little different than most, and more to do with his family. Maybe they’d had a run in with a septon. Something to keep in mind; now wasn’t the time to pry further.

“Nothing wrong with not believing either,” Steve added, in case he’d read things wrong “One of my best friends only ever stepped foot inside a church to check out the art.”

“He a noble toff, or one of your champions?” Robin asked. “Er. I mean a noble noble, not a noble like you. Da says nobles spend their gold on all sorts of stuff cause they got so much of it.”

“Both,” Steve said, grinning at the thought of Tony hearing himself called a ‘noble toff’. “Tony was richer than god.”

“Richer than the Lannisters?” Robin asked.

Steve spent a moment weighing up the opulence of Jaime’s tent against Tony’s liquor cabinet. “Easily.”

A dreamy look came across Robin’s face. “When I win the archery, I’ll be rich too. I’ll be able to afford all kinds of things.”

“Ten thousand gold coins is a lot of money,” Steve said. “What are you gonna buy?”

“A mansion for Ma and Da,” Robin said immediately. “In the rich district. And a goldenheart bow for me. And -” he paused, his enthusiasm dampening. “Food. For Flea Bottom. It ain’t right, people starving while the nobles grow fat.”

“You can do a lot of good with gold and the will to use it for others,” Steve said.

“I mean, might as well right?” Robin said. “Just think of the toff’s faces when they realise I’ve taken their gold and given it to the poor.”

“The trick is to get those toffs to give you more money to help others for fear of looking bad, or to ease their consciences,” Steve said.

“No way would any noble give up their gold like that,” Robin said. The clamour of the training yard began to drift through the air ahead as they drew nearer to their goal.

“You’d be surprised,” Steve said, thinking of the times he had seen Tony goad and prick at the egos of other high society types to get them to donate to whatever cause he was championing at the time. As he spoke, the clamour grew in volume, and the training yard was revealed to them as they emerged from the shadow of the Towers, and into the Flowstone Yard proper.

The yard wasn’t confined to a courtyard as in the Red Keep, but instead seemed to sprawl across the grounds that lay in the interior of Harrenhal’s great towers. The ground itself was strange, and Steve could see why they called it ‘Flowstone’; much of it was uneven or lumpy, and even akin to small waves in parts. In ordinary times, Steve would judge it to be impossible to fill with just the residents of the castle, but with the army of guests present for the tournament it was much busier, with several rings seeing active use between two or more combatants. What looked to be the flattest portion of the yard, along the north-eastern wall, had been set aside for mounted men to take runs at a number of quintains. Between the Kingspyre Tower and the Tower of Dread, against the wall of the great feast hall, a broad set of archery butts had been set up. There was even a small section of axe throwing.

“You want a hand at the butts?” Steve asked.

“No, I can manage,” Robin said. He hefted his bow, quiver slung over his shoulder.

“Alright. I’ll be by the rings if you need me,” Steve said, nodding in their direction.

They parted ways, Robin skirting the yard while Steve headed deeper in. The super soldier ran an eye over the rings; there were seven of them, squares of hard packed earth with a waist high wooden fence running around them. There was a great range of men present, some in clothes not much better than Steve’s own but wielding fine weapons and attended to by servants, while others were clad in suits of armour that were close enough to works of art that Steve would almost hesitate to strike them if the owner was fool enough to wear them to a proper fight.

One of the rings had a larger gathering of spectators than the others, and Steve drifted towards it. By the sound of metal on metal, a spar had just finished. A bellow and the small crowd’s roar confirmed it as he joined them.

In the ring, a man stood over his fallen opponent, warhammer raised in victory. He basked in the adulation of the crowd for only a moment, before striding to his vanquished foe and offering the man a hand up. The man took it with what sounded to be a friendly grumble and was hauled to his feet, before retrieving his sword that lay in the dirt nearby.

“Is there no one else?” the man called, a wide grin on his face. He seemed possessed by the spirit of the yard, the enthusiasm of all present feeding into him.

“Aye, I’ll knock some sense into you, Baratheon!” a man with a mace and shield said, ducking under the railing to the cheers of the watchers.

“How do you think he lost it all in the first place?” another young man called, and the cheers turned to good natured jeers. There was a wolf head stitched onto his gambeson.

Steve settled in to watch as the combatants sized each other up. If nothing else, he could at least learn a thing or two about wielding a hammer in a fight. The crowd quietened in anticipation of the first blow.

The big man, Bartheon, moved first, hammer swinging with almost surgical precision. His foe backstepped, apparently expecting it, and swung with his mace, only to be surprised by the sudden reversal of the hammer. It crashed into a hastily raised shield, staggering him. Those watching erupted with shouts of encouragement and advice, backing their chosen fighter.

As the spar continued, Steve watched with a calculating eye. The hammer Baratheon was using had more in common with his new weapon than Mjolnir did, and he was learning just by watching him, even if he intended to wield his own weapon one handed. The spectacle felt like a boxing match or a sporting event more than anything.

There was a quick flurry of blows from both men, and the mace wielder attempted a hook and pull with his shield only for Baratheon to power through and trip the man into the dirt with some tricky footwork. His hammer thudded into the ground next to his head a moment later.

“Nearly!” Baratheon said, as he extended a hand up to his fallen foe.

“I’ll have you next time,” the man said, grumbling but in good spirits as he accepted the help up.

“Maybe next time can be a barrel of ale at the feast tonight,” Baratheon said.

“Ha! You’ve no chance, storm lord,” the man said. “You’re on.”

The scene devolved into further backslapping and banter as another pair of men stepped up to spar. Steve considered staying to watch, but as the fighters began to batter at each other with swords, decided his time would be better spent elsewhere. Across the yard, Robin had set up at the archery butts, and Steve made his way clear of the small crowd to approach him.

Robin was returning from his chosen target as Steve arrived, quiver full of arrows as he inspected the fletching on another in his hands. The archery butts were set up in lanes, with archers firing towards targets that were set up against the stone wall of the main eating hall of Harrenhal. Retrieving arrows seemed to be done at the archer’s own peril, each man hoping that his neighbours were at least capable of keeping their shots in their own lane.

Steve figured there wasn’t anything like OSHA standards here. “Feeling confident?” he asked.

“There are a lot of good archers here,” Robin said. His usual braggadocio was absent, and he stabbed a few arrows into the ground, setting up for another go at the target.

“I’m told there’s a bit of gold to be won here,” Steve said.

Robin cracked a hint of a smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen an archer better than I am,” he admitted.

“Westeros is a lot bigger than King’s Landing,” Steve said. “There’s always a bigger fish.”

“I know I’m not the greatest archer in the Kingdoms,” Robin said, his tone frustrated now. “But the better archers are supposed to be people like Ulmer and Fletcher Dick, not the man in the next lane over.”

Steve glanced at the man in the next lane over. He stood out, mostly because he didn’t have a single bit of hair on his entire head, and also because his target was full of arrows in the pattern of a wolfshead. The hairless man met his eyes briefly, but quickly looked away.

“He’s been making his way through the sigils of the great houses,” Robin said in only mostly feigned despair.

“Well...you’ve got a few days to practise, right?” Steve said.

Robin gave him a dead eyed stare.

“What happens if you don’t win the event?” Steve asked, more seriously.

“I...miss out on thousands and thousands of gold dragons?” Robin asked.

“Do you have a debt I don’t know about?” Steve asked. “Is someone going to die if you don’t win?”

“No, but--”

“Are you going to lose what I’m told is a decent wage and good position with that stuffy noble you work for?” Steve said.

“You know, you could let me wallow in my nerves for a bit longer,” Robin said.

“I could,” Steve said, “but then Naerys would be upset with me.” He fixed him with a steady look. “Enjoy yourself. Do your best. If you win, you win. If you don’t, you don’t.”

“Yes ser,” Robin said, sighing. He strung an arrow, but hesitated as he glanced at the target beside his own and saw his neighbour halfway through what looked like a squid.

Steve thumped the kid on the shoulder. “This won’t be your last tournament, and you can only improve. Don’t fear that you won’t win, just get out there and compete. Fear is the mind killer.”

“Right,” Robin said, straightening his spine and drawing his bow. He breathed out, and loosed. Bullseye.

Steve watched as Robin sent another full quiver downrange in a steady march from the centre to the edge of the target, and then around the edge. They weren’t all perfect shots, and he’d seen Clint do better to show off at a party, but the kid wasn’t a world class assassin with years of experience under his belt either.

“Good work,” Steve said when he was done. “Now get your arrows and do it again.”

Robin rolled his eyes at him, but went to collect his arrows as Steve watched.

“Mighty kind of ye,” the bald man in the next lane piped up. His voice sounded like a man talking through his nose with a bad cold.

“Hmm?” Steve asked.

“Encouragin’ the lad,” the man said. “You sponsoring him for part of the prize?” He put another arrow into his target, almost negligently.

“Any prize he wins belongs to him,” Steve said. He frowned. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think we spend time in the same social circles,” he said with a slight cackle. “M’ name’s Richard. Who would you be?”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve said. He held out a hand to shake, which the man took bemusedly.

“Not Lord America Steve Rogers? The one them bards are singing about killing that Smilin’ Knight?” Richard asked.

“Can’t say I’ve heard any of their songs, but yes,” Steve said.

The man hawked and spat out a glob of phlegm. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Steve made a noise of agreement, as a thought occurred to him. “You’re a pretty good archer,” he said, as he watched the man put the final arrow in his design of some squid-like creature. “Think you’d be up for giving Robin a few lessons? I can pay.”

“Not on your life, m’lord,” Richard said, cackling again. “I mean to win this prize, and I’m not ‘bout to give a helping hand to me foes.”

“Worth a shot,” Steve said, shrugging. “You take care now.”

“An’ you, m’lord, an’ you,” Richard said, more to himself as he wandered off to retrieve his arrows.

Robin returned, ready to continue.

“Now, I’m not an archer, but let me share some things I was taught about breathing…” Steve began, thinking back to a conversation he’d had with Clint. The kid might not win, but it wouldn’t be because Steve didn’t give him what help he could.

X x X

“The Hall of One Hundred Hearths?” Steve asked. “And they say it can seat an army?”

The day was deep into the afternoon, and the walls of Harrenhal were already casting a long shadow over the grounds and the tent town.

“So the tales say,” Naerys said. She was seated on one of the chairs they had bought for the tent, putting the final touches on a simple but appealing braid.

“Sounds like a hell of a thing to keep tidy,” Steve said, as he checked his outfit. He was in the same blue get up with red and white trim he had worn to the feast at the Red Keep. He still didn’t know what it was called, but it would have fit right in at some of the reenactments he’d seen back home.

“Lord Whent has cause to boast,” Kedry said. “Few are the Houses who can maintain such a castle.” He was sharpening his glaive, still in his day wear.

Toby burst into the tent’s receiving room from the outside. “C’mon, are we ready yet? There’s a feast t’ get to.”

“You’ve got dirt on your nose,” Naerys said, eyes narrowed.

“‘M not gettin’ in a tub agin,” Toby said, straightening his back and standing tall.

Naerys pointed at the ground before her, and Toby slumped, obeying the unspoken command. He trailed over to her in new, clean clothes of navy and white. With his hair combed neatly for once, he looked like a different child.

Licking her thumb, Naerys swiped a smudge of dirt from his nose. “Remember, your behaviour reflects on Steve.”

Toby squirmed. “Do I hafta wear the shoes? They rub.”

“You can’t wear wraps to a feast in a Lord’s castle,” Kedry said. Toby grumbled, but stopped squirming.

“That’s what this tournament is then?” Steve asked Kedry, returning to his earlier comment. “A boast?”

“He is not spending over one hundred thousand gold dragons on the prizes alone because he wishes for company,” Kedry said. “This is easily a decade of savings, even for a House such as the Whents.”

“He couldn’t just borrow the gold?” Steve asked.

“No noble would lend the money silently, and none would suffer the blow to their reputation to ask,” Kedry said.

“Expensive boast,” Steve said. He wasn’t one to tell others what they should do with their money, but the poverty he had seen in King’s Landing and beyond didn’t go down well with him when nobles could just give away so much gold for a spectacle.

Robin emerged from his room, picking at his outfit. “How is it?” he asked, aiming for nonchalant but landing squarely in nervous.

Steve eyed it. A simple but fine navy tunic with white trim, and blue trousers. It sat well on the kid’s frame. “Looks good,” he said. He cocked an eyebrow at Naerys, taking in Toby’s outfit in a new light. “You know you could have gotten any colour you wanted.”

They’re part of your retinue, they’ll wear your colours,” Naerys said.

“Shouldn’t you be in my colours too then?” Steve asked, more teasing than serious. Robin smothered a laugh.

Naerys blushed, smoothing over her lavender dress as she rose to her feet. “Not when I have a perfectly serviceable dress already,” she said. “Shall we go?”

“Sure. You sure you’re right to watch the tent?” Steve asked Kedry.

“I am not much one for feasts,” Kedry said, “but thank you. Enjoy yourselves, and behave.” The last was to Toby, who offered an angelic smile in return.

“I will keep an eye on him,” Naerys said, lingering by the tent flap.

“My thanks,” Kedry said, with a smile and a half bow from where he was seated.

“Come on Steve,” Naerys said. “You must lead the way. You can’t be seen trailing behind your retinue.”

“You know, for my seneschal, you order me around a lot,” Steve said, leaving the tent, Naerys, Robin, and Toby in his wake.

“Only because you need it, my Lord,” Naerys said.

Outside, the sun had well and truly disappeared behind the walls, and torches around the grounds were being lit by a small army of servants, some lining a path towards the great feast hall of Harrenhal. A slow tide of people were making their ways towards it, and Steve and his companions joined them.

The broad double doors of the Hall were held open by a pair of servants in black and yellow livery as guests flowed in. As they entered, Steve could see why people said it could house an army. The Hall of A Hundred Hearths was cavernous, oversized just like the rest of the castle. The far end of the Hall was a bit of a walk away, but Steve could make out a high table that ran along the back wall, the seats behind it empty. Along the Hall itself, two rows of broad tables stretched out, already half full at the nearest, but emptier as they went along.

The Hearths for which the Hall was named were set into the walls, blazing with warmth, but to Steve’s eye there weren't quite one hundred of them. Must be a turn of phrase, he figured.

“The more noble your blood, and the greater your prestige, the closer you sit to the high table,” Naerys said, as they continued into the Hall. “But here, all are expected to seat themselves.”

Steve eyed the near packed tables by the door; hedge knights already enjoying the bounty of ale put on by their host. A bit further down the tables reminded him less of a shady tavern, but the scarceness of women and children made him think twice. Beyond them was what he picked to be the sweet spot; lords in rich clothing, many with wives and children present, but not quite at the stage where the tables were dominated by groups in shared colours, the ones who Steve guessed must be the Lord Paramounts and their retinues.

“Down there,” Steve said, nodding to an empty spot between two groups.

Naerys almost opened her mouth to say something, but reconsidered, falling in to follow Steve with Robin and Toby, the two boys taking in as much of the Hall as they could with wide eyes. Robin was trying to hide his interest, keeping his head straight as his eyes darted around, but Toby had no such compunctions, head on a swivel as he tried to gawk at everything at once.

Steve led them to the spot he had picked out. The dull roar of conversation of so many guests filled the Hall, even as large as it was. He could feel looks cast upon them, and was reminded of the social jockeying of the schoolyard. Many frowned, as if attempting to place them. As they reached the place Steve had picked out, those on either side gave them a look before turning away, noses turned up and exchanging significant looks. Valiantly, Steve held back from rolling his eyes.

“Here looks good,” Steve said.

Toby and Robin settled onto the bench seat without comment, but Naerys raised one eyebrow at him, glancing at the nobles who were wordlessly snubbing them. Steve offered her a guileless smile in return. If they wanted to kick up a fuss, he’d just have to ask his good friend Barristan the Bold for advice on how to handle it. He might not enjoy it, but he knew how to play the game.

Steve took his seat, bracketing his group on one end. Naerys was to his left, Toby beside her, and Robin on the other end. On the table were half empty baskets of rich white loaves of bread, as well as small bowls of salt.

“This is that ‘guest right’, like at the Red Keep, Naerys?” Steve asked.

“‘Guests shall do no harm, and be safe from harm while within these walls,” Narys confirmed. “Although this is more of a formality confirming the implicit agreement when you accepted the invitation to the castle grounds.”

“No one ever breaks it?” Steve asked. He wondered if there’d been a similar thing back in the Middle Ages of his home.

“To do so is to be attainted, cursed by the Gods,” Naerys said, as she tore a piece of bread from the loaf and dipped it in salt.

Steve followed her lead, noting the lack of denial. “What do you reckon, fellas?” he asked Robin and Toby. “This is your first feast, right?”

“It’s something,” Robin said. “More lords than I’ve seen in my life.”

“When does the food come out?” Toby asked. “Not much of a feast without food.”

Steve snorted, ignoring the disdainful glances of their neighbours. “Good to see you keeping your mind on what’s important.”

Toby nodded, completely serious.

“Soon,” Naerys said. “Not before His Grace joins us, certainly.”

But ‘His Grace’ never did so. Instead, it was Rhaegar who took the seat of honour up at the high table, escorting his wife Elia, as all rose in respect. They were seated, and the Lord Whent their host beside them, before the hall at large returned to their seats.

Steve examined the high table from afar. Aside from the two royals, it mostly seemed to be occupied by Whents, four sons and a daughter on either side of their parents, although he also spied Barristan up there, sitting next to his fellow Kingsguard.

Rhaegar stood, a cup in hand as he spoke to the hall at large, but in reality only those closest to him. He raised a toast, and many of the high lords joined him in it.

“What’s he saying?” Toby asked. “Can’t hardly hear him back here.”

Steve strained his ears, but the hall, even one that was respectfully attentive when their Prince was speaking, was still one filled with hundreds of groups of people. “Prosperity of the realm, something about the tournament, thanking Lord Whent,” he answered. “He mentioned a harp too.”

“He say anything about the food?” Toby said.

The small group to their side, towards the head of the hall, evidently overheard him, and one of them snorted indelicately.

Steve ignored them, turning back to Toby. “I think his last words were, ‘eat, drink, and be merry’,” he said, reaching behind Naerys to ruffle the kid’s hair.

Toby bore the great indignity with a put upon expression, but made no move to avoid it. He inspected the cutlery upon the table before them; simple metal implements but higher quality than what was laid upon the tables closer to the entrance. “I know how to use these at least; Kedry showed me how one time.”

“Just remember that food goes in your mouth and not on your shirt,” Robin said, grinning, earning a poke in his ribs from the boy.

“I’m no idjit, I’m not gonna waste good food,” Toby said.

More tittering from the group beside them, and once again Steve ignored them. “Here comes the feast now.”

Servants emerged from a door at the head of the hall, behind and to the side of the high table. Huge trays of roast meats and vegetables were the focus of many an eye, but a flood of smaller plates of other delicacies wafted enticingly as well. Small kegs were carried by pairs of them, and with efficiency that a modern quartermaster would envy, soon there was food and drink in reach of every guest in the enormous hall.

Toby was almost salivating as he took a sample from every plate within reach, and Robin wasn’t far behind him. Naerys and Steve shared a quick smile at their enthusiasm, before reaching to fill plates of their own.

“Look at the little savages go,” a voice said from nearby, pitched to carry.

Steve felt his smile fade, and he turned to the group to his right.

Steve levelled a hard stare at the group beside them. It was only three men really, for all they were attended by their wives and two of them their sons. They were focused on their meals and their own conversations, pointedly pretending not to notice the reaction to their own comment.

Deliberately, Steve turned away, showing them his back. The only thing you won from playing stupid games was a stupid prize. Even if he would prefer to take them down an alley to give them a stern talking to.

Naerys had heard, but kept her smile fixed in place, even if her posture had become tense. Toby also, but Steve had heard the pep talk Kedry had given the kid and while it had convinced him to be on his best behaviour, it had also left him unsure of how to respond to a taunt like that, especially given his first choice would be some manner of foul language or threat. Robin had likewise picked up on the tension, even if he hadn’t heard what had been said.

“How’s the food, Toby?” Steve asked. “Everything you hoped for?”

Toby chewed slowly, before visibly deciding to follow Steve’s lead. “‘S good,” he said. He took a sip of his goblet and pulled a face. “Dunno about the wine though.”

Steve quickly rescued the goblet from the kid’s clutches. “That’s because we don’t drink alcohol until we’re of - at least eighteen,” he said.

“Sour anyway,” Toby said, tucking back into the mountain of food on his plate.

Another comment came, something about the wine, and again Steve ignored it.

“Kedry will clip you over the ear if you give yourself a stomach ache eating all that,” Naerys said.

“Some of it’s for ‘em anyway,” Toby said. “‘lways made sure I never went hungry.”

Again, a snide comment came, this time more of a direct barb about starving smallfolk and too many children, and again Steve allowed it to bounce off his back. He did know their faces though, and he was mighty close to deciding to look for them on the field.

“Kedry is lucky to have you to look after him,” Naerys said, as if their neighbours had never spoken.

Toby ducked his head. “‘s nothing.”

Naerys smiled, genuinely now, and turned to Robin. “How did you go at the archery butts today?”

The rude group apparently gave up, at least for then, because they were able to talk and enjoy the feast, taking in the wonders of the Whents table and observing other, more noteworthy guests as time passed by and dinner became dessert and all manner of elaborate caramelised constructions were wheeled out to the delight of all.

For Steve, it was an opportunity to take in not just the food, but the people. It had been a long time since he had been able to attend such a gathering without being one of the centres of attention, and he was able to indulge in an old pastime of his: people watching. It was the tables just below the high table that drew his eye the most, full of rich food being eaten by people in richer clothing. He could easily see the invisible lines delineating the different groups, even as they sat and ate together. There was an old lord with a falcon pinned to his chest, surrounded by a sober retinue. Another group with gold roses worked into every stitch of clothing, arrayed around an older lady who seemed to take great joy in directing their conversation. There was a small gathering of dusky skinned people with a look similar to the Princess, sitting near an equally small gathering of younger people - barely more than children, by Steve’s eyes - with grey wolves stitched into their cloaks. Steve recognised one from earlier in the day, cheering on the man named as Robert Baratheon in the training yard. Speaking of the Baratheon, Steve could see him engaged in some manner of drinking contest across the hall, surrounded by a rowdy group in disparate clothing and sigils.

At an unseen signal, plates of food began to be cleared away by the army of servants, and a band of minstrels began to set up below the high table. The tone of the hall started to grow more festive, as all anticipated the next stage of the evening. Steve was just watching as what appeared to be a dance floor was made clear, when the servants clearing the tables reached them.

Toby scowled at one, clutching at the plate the woman was waiting to take.

“We have a companion back at our tent, would it be possible to have some food taken to them?” Steve asked, before anything could come of it.

“Of course, m’lord,” the woman said. “I can do that right away.”

“Thank you,” Naerys said, and Steve caught the glint of a silver coin that she placed on the plate before it was collected. He kicked himself for forgetting the small courtesies that made this new world go round as Naerys gave the woman directions to their tent.

“So how was the feast?” Steve asked Toby. “Everything you were hoping?”

The boy nodded fervently, even as he clutched at his slightly rounded stomach. “After you win the melee, you can put on a spread like that all the time, yeah?”

“You’ll be able to put it on yourself, after you win the horse race,” Steve said.

“Hey yeah,” Toby said, eyes going distant as he began to imagine endless feasts.

“Maybe I’ll just invite you to my feasts, after I win the archery,” Robin said.

Naerys turned to Steve as the two kids got into a competition over what they would buy with their winnings. “Tournaments are more than just feasts and contests,” she said. “They’re also excellent places to strengthen relationships and make new ones. Did you plan to introduce yourself to anyone?”

“I could always go and make some new friends,” Steve said. He had a brief flashback to his showdays. “I can be charming when I want to be.”

“I’m sure,” Naerys said. “I’ll keep an eye on the boys.”

“Good luck,” he said, rising from the table and heading up along the hall. Others were already starting to gather there, talking in small groups even as others began to fill the dance floor between the two rows of tables that ran the hall.

The minstrels had finished setting up, and a tune began to fill the room, much to the joy of those who would dance. The dance wasn’t one that Steve recognised, but something about the tune sounded vaguely familiar.

In the midst of the crowd of standing guests now, Steve moved through them easily, with a lightness of foot few would expect from a man his size. He began to eye the area for opportunities, or at least an interesting conversation. A nearby discussion about the price of grain in the Reach wasn’t exactly making his blood pump. In the end, Steve felt himself drawn towards a young man, with dark hair and grey eyes, loitering near the dance floor and casting surreptitious looks across it. Steve followed his glances, and found his eye drawn to a young woman of startling beauty. Dark locks fell artfully around her shoulders, and purple eyes watched from beneath demure lashes. She was on the edge of the Dornish party, speaking with another young lady. While she was turned partly away from the direction of the young man with the wolf sigil, the woman she was talking to was not, and Steve caught her glancing in that direction before she relayed something to her.

The memory of a missed dance, long ago, struck him suddenly, and Steve was walking before he had made a conscious decision. He stopped before the young man, only for him to almost jerk with surprise, so preoccupied he had been.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve introduced himself, extending a hand.

“Eddard Stark,” the young man answered, gaze already drifting back towards the lady, before pausing. “Not Lord America?”

“The same,” Steve said, wincing internally. “Now, I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been watching the young lady across the dance floor.”

Eddard squared his shoulders. “Apologies, I was not aware you were acquainted with Lady Dayne?”

“I’m not,” Steve said.

A small frown. “Then by what-”

“I also couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t asked her to dance yet,” Steve said.

“I, that is, I am not much one for dancing,” Eddard said.

“Maybe,” Steve said, “but I’m sure she is, and if you don’t ask her soon, you might just miss your chance.” He could feel a locket burning a hole in his pocket, and he dismissed the urge to open it to look at the picture within. “I’m sure if you look, you’ll see a few fellas already building themselves up to it.”

Almost against his will, Eddard looked around, and he could indeed see a number of men looking in the lady’s direction. Whether they were just admiring from afar, or if they too wished to dance with her, he could not say, but suddenly it seemed like too much of a risk.

“Can you dance?” Steve asked.

“Of course,” Eddard said.

“Then you go and you ask her to dance,” Steve said.

“I do not think-” Eddard attempted.

“Now,” Steve ordered.

Eddard was moving before he registered agreeing to the commanding tone, cutting almost right across the dancefloor. He sent a panicked look Steve’s way, but his movement had already been noticed, and to turn back now would be the greater embarrassment. Like a man walking to the noose, he approached the woman he had been admiring from afar.

Steve watched as Eddard slowly but surely ground his way through his introduction and a request to dance. Dayne - and Steve realised that she must be the sister Arthur had spoken of on occasion, Ashara - inspected him for a moment that Steve was sure felt like an eternity to the Stark, before smiling and offering him her hand. They took to the dancefloor, Eddard the envy of half the men there but blind to it, focused on the woman before him. Steve nodded to himself at a job well done. He’d have to check in on him later, and see if he had managed to score himself a date, or whatever it was they aimed for here.

But there was still more he could do.

The Dornish group that had been enjoying an argument earlier had apparently settled it, because now they were eyeing him speculatively. Two of them shared looks with the Princess, although one was likely a brother while the other was an uncle, who Steve had met while at the Red Keep.

Steve drifted around the edge of the dancing, orbiting but not joining any of the groups doing likewise. He came to a stop near to the Dornish, but not so close that they wouldn’t have to approach him should they wish to converse.

They took the unspoken invitation, or at least the youngest of the apparent leaders did, and Lewyn followed him.

“Rare is the man who would encourage another to pursue such a beauty as Ashara Dayne,” the man drawled as he approached.

“Well, it’s the duty of elders to mentor the young,” Steve said, shrugging.

“Because you have such an aged appearance, grandfather,” the man said.

“I was born almost a century ago, you know,” Steve said.

“Of course,” the man said. “Oberyn Martell, and this is my uncle, Lewyn Martell of the esteemed Kingsguard.”

“Steve Rogers. We’ve met,” Steve said, nodding to Lewyn, who returned the gesture. They had crossed paths once or twice during his time in King’s Landing, but only briefly, as the man was usually guarding his niece.

“Lord America,” Lewyn said. He wasn’t what anyone would describe as old, but nor was he a young man anymore. Still, Steve had seen what the man could do in the training yard.

“Lord Martell,” Steve said. “And a pleasure, Lord Martell. Have you been enjoying the feast?”

“It has certainly been a feast,” Oberyn said. “I asked to see the kitchens earlier, but no one would let me in.” He smiled, as if sharing a joke.

“I don’t believe our foreign guest is aware of your stellar reputation, nephew,” Lewyn said. “There are some who accuse Oberyn of being a poisoner, and that was before he attended the Citadel to expand his education.”

“The Citadel is like a university, right?” Steve asked. “What was it like learning there?”

Oberyn hesitated, taken off guard, but only for a moment. “Truthfully, while I enjoyed the learning, there was all too much time spent on internal politics. I left after forging several links.”

“That would have been something,” Steve said. There had been a time when Tony had offered to make whatever arrangements were necessary for Steve to attend whatever college or university he wanted, but the crises had kept piling up, and there had never been enough time.

“Tell me, how is it that you are a Rogers but also America?” Lewyn asked. “Is that the norm in your homeland?”

“Lord America is something I became based on my ability,” Steve explained. He would name himself Lord, but damned if he would ever say he was born to it. “Rogers is the name of my father.”

“So all titles in your homeland are granted based on ability?” Oberyn asked.

“Not quite,” Steve said. “It’s complicated, but I’ve commanded and fought with princes and kings, and taken orders from men with no titles.”

“How bizarre,” Lewyn said. “But I suppose our ways must seem the same to you at times,” he offered.

“You could say that,” Steve said with a faint grin.

“You seem a decent fellow, Rogers,” Oberyn said. “I may have to look for you in the field come the tourney.”

“You seem a decent fellow, Martell,” Steve said. “I may have to let you find me.”

Oberyn’s eyes sparked at the challenge. “Do you joust in your homeland?”

“Not for many years,” Steve said. “It’s the melee for me.”

“There is still time to sign up for the melee,” Oberyn mused.

“Pick a field and stick to it nephew,” Lewyn said.

“We’ll see,” Oberyn said, before turning back to Steve. “How have you found our fair realms since arriving?” he asked, genuinely inquisitive. “Have you any unanswered questions?”

“Strange, but aren’t all new lands strange to strangers?” Steve asked, getting a laugh in response. “As to questions...I suppose that once I win the melee, I’ll have some coin to spare. Where do you suggest I visit first?”

“Straight to Braavos and the Iron Bank,” Lewyn said. “Unless you’ve a safe place to put it, like a castle vault.”

“Stop in at Lys on the way to spend some of that coin, perhaps,” Oberyn said, “but yes, Braavos and the Iron Bank. I don’t envy the man known to be travelling with thousands of gold dragons in his cart.”

“That sounds like the smart move,” Steve said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“It is - or will be - your gold,” Oberyn said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a young lady making eyes at me, and I must go.” He gave a short bow, and left.

“I also have responsibilities to see to,” Lewyn said. “Pleasure to see you again, America.” He held out his arm, and Steve took it. “Also, if you’ll look to the dancefloor, young Ashara and the Stark boy are still dancing.” He winked, and then he was gone too.

Steve turned to check. Lewyn was right; Eddard and Ashara were still dancing in each other's arms, deep in conversation. “How about that.”

He should check in on his companions soon, but he still had time for one more conversation at least.

Steve had almost made up his mind to approach the scrum of drunk and drinking nobles where Robert Baratheon was holding court, when he saw Barristan leave the dancefloor. The knight saw him at the same time, and they approached one another.

“A quarterstaff,” Barristan said, and it took Steve a moment to remember their last conversation. “Defensive, like your shield, but still a weapon.”

“You’ll just have to wait like everyone else, Barristan,” Steve said.

“You had no troubles signing up for the melee then?” Barristan asked, as they stepped clear of the busyness closest to the dancing.

“No, should I have?” Steve asked.

“It was possible; there will always be those turned away for one reason or another, even at smaller tourneys,” Barristan said. “But it is good that you did not; I will see you on the field.”

“Don’t let anyone knock you out before I get to you,” Steve said. “How have you been since leaving King’s Landing?”

“As well as can be hoped,” Barristan said, “despite the business with...well.”

“I think I know something about what you’re worried over,” Steve said. “The kid will do his best.”

“That is only part of what concerns me,” Barristan admitted. “But that isn’t a topic for here and now.”

“All you can do is your best,” Steve said. “More importantly, who should I put my money on for the joust? I’ll have a few thousand to bet with for the final.”

“Myself, of course,” Barristan said, without hesitation. “Although I had thought your share of the Kingswood loot to be only a scant hundred.”

“Have you already forgotten that I’m going to win the melee?” Steve asked. “I hear the memory is the first thing to go.”

Barristan smothered a snort. “Whatever happens, I’m sure I’ll see you in the final. How have you been enjoying your time at Harrenhal?”

“It’s quite a place,” Steve said. “Spoke to the Martells earlier; Oberyn was interesting.”

“The Red Viper of Dorne has something of a reputation in some circles,” Barristan said.

“He seems fun,” Steve said. “He mentioned an ‘Iro-” his gaze snapped away and he cut himself off as he heard a familiar voice cry out, briefly piercing the din of the hall, and then a faint crack. “Excuse me, Barristan.”

Steve strode back towards his companions, stepping quickly around anyone in his way. As he neared his goal, an unpleasant scene awaited him.

Naerys stood facing the group that had been so ill mannered earlier, two high spots of colour on her cheeks and her arm held in the firm grip of one of the men as she struggled. They were likewise standing, one looming over Toby who was scowling up at him, while the other had a finger digging into Robin’s chest as he spoke down to the kid.

Steve swallowed a snarl. Some folk just insisted on attempting to ice skate uphill.

Stepping forward, Steve grabbed the arm of the man holding Naerys, and began to squeeze. A hand that could twist metal exerted a small measure of its strength, and the man let go of Naerys as he gasped and attempted to twist free of Steve’s grip. It was not to be. He was most of a head taller than their tallest, and near twice as thick besides.

“What seems be the problem here, friends?” Steve asked, staring down at the irritant. There was an outline of a hand on the man’s handsome face, quickly reddening.

“Who do you think you are?” the man blustered after failing to free himself.

“Steve Rogers, Lord America,” Steve said. “Now, I asked you a question.”

“I will not be manhandled by an upjumped foreigner!” he tried again. Sweat was beginning to bead from the brown hair at his temples.

“Evidence says otherwise,” Steve said. He turned to Naerys. “Who are these people?”

“He’s a Hayford, of House Hayford,” Naerys said. Her tone was rushed, and she was breathing quickly. “He’s a Longwaters, and he’s a Stokeworth,” she added, nodding first to the man who had been standing over Toby, and then to the one who had his finger in Robin’s chest. “The rest are their family and retinue.”

Steve eyed the near dozen strong group who were all arrayed around them. Hayford had stopped attempting to get free, and was trying to make it look like Steve’s grip wasn’t bothering him. Few others were looking their way yet, but the initial commotion and his own entrance had drawn some eyes. “Alright. Now what happened here?”

Naerys opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t form the words. The spots of her colour spread into a ruddy glow of embarrassed anger.

“He laid hands on her,” Robin said. There was a cold hate in his eyes as he glared at the man holding Naerys’ arm, ignoring the man pushing him.

“I did no such thing, and to insinuate otherwise is a most grievous offence,” Hayford retorted. “This harlot struck me-”

“Yer cock is more shrivelled than a wiltin’ pile of cowshit,” Toby announced, “and yer tongue ought ta be cut off for the lies yer spillin’.”

One of the men’s wives gasped in the background.

“Naerys?” Steve asked. His tone had gone quiet and hard.

Naerys gave a jerky nod, crossing her arms over her chest only to immediately lower them.

“You will apologise,” Steve said.

“I will not apologise for something I did no-argh!”

At his pained yelp, Hayford’s compatriots stepped towards him, but seemed hesitant to take any action themselves. Steve held back a look of contempt. Bullies were the same wherever they reared their heads.

“Apologise.”

“I, ah, apologise for any inadvertent offence I may have unintentionally caused,” Hayford ground out. “Now unhand me.”

Steve considered him for a long moment. That ‘apology’ was likely the best he would get. He released him, and he quickly stepped back, rubbing his arm.

“I suppose it was too much to expect a foreign peasant to conduct themselves with any dignity,” another man, Stokeworth, said. His hair was blond, and his cheeks were ruddy with wine. “You ought to take your meals in the kennels where you belong.”

“Pal, based on your behaviour tonight I’d sooner trust a dog to be a good dinner guest than you,” Steve said.

Angry mutterings filtered around the rest of their group, the two teenage sons only kept from intervening by the restraining hands of their mothers.

“Were there any worth to your blood, I’d have you answer for your insults before the gods,” Hayford spat, drawing himself up.

“If you’re lucky, you can meet me in the melee and we’ll discuss our differences,” Steve said.

“You are in the melee?” the third man, the one who had been standing over Toby, spoke up. “And here I thought the heralds would know a charlatan when they saw one.”

“Longwaters, right?” Steve asked.

“Lord Longwaters to you, wretch,” Longwaters sneered, silver blond hair shining in the torchlight. “Descended from Velaryon and Targaryen both-”

“I don’t actually care,” Steve said. “Face me in the melee or don’t, I’ve run out of patience for you and your yammering.” He turned to Naerys. “Are you ready to leave?”

“I believe I am,” Naerys said, looking down on the group before them despite being shorter. Steve couldn’t help but notice her features and bearing were considerably more aristocratic than that of Longwaters. “It seems the so-called nobility of the Crownlands is anything but.”

Stokeworth began to say something, but Steve was done with him. He began to lead his friends away from the confrontation, and what little attention they had gathered from nearby guests faded with their departure, leaving the Crownlanders alone in their bubble.

Once they were clear, Steve spoke as they walked. “You guys alright?”

“Gits aren’t worth the pot they piss in,” Toby said. “Shoulda smacked em harder.”

“It’s what you have to expect from nobles,” Robin said. He was still scowling, jaw clenched.

“...Naerys?” Steve asked.

“I’m fine,” Naerys said, voice short. “I should have been paying closer attention; I could have avoided all that.”

“Balls to that,” Steve said, in what passed for foul language for him. “That was on them, not you.”

Naerys gave a small hmm.

“Besides,” Steve said, “he’ll be feeling that slap tomorrow.”

“He will, won’t he,” Naerys said, a faint grin upon her face. “Do you think it will bruise?”

“It should, the training I’ve been putting you through,” Steve said. “Now come on, we’ve got a whole tournament ahead of us, and tomorrow is the last day before we start competing. Let’s try to enjoy it, yeah?”

A chorus of agreement answered him, and then they were free of the hall and into the night air. The moon was thin, but the stars were bright and the air was fresh. Their time at Harrenhal had barely begun.