The meadow was idyllic, gently sloping towards the river that ran along its south side, and filled with grass and flowers of yellow and purple and white. A lone tree stood to the north side, and a badger was digging at the entrance to a small burrow in its roots, showing its young how to hunt. Something made it stop and look up, black nose sniffing at the wind. A moment later it had grabbed its cub and disappeared, making for the safety of its den.

Steve watched as it fled, the tranquillity of the field banished by the clatter and clank of thousands of pairs of boots marching on. He stood in the front line of a block of men as they advanced, Hugo then Harwin to his right, Artys then Arland to his left. Ren stood in the second row at his back, banner held low and furled. They were in the rightmost block, and more stretched all the way left until the river. The blocks might not have been marching in lockstep, but they were orderly enough for the task. Fear and determination filled the air, but not a man hesitated or faltered, bolstered by the courage that came from over ten thousand men marching with them.

Across the meadow was the enemy. Their numbers were greater, deepening their line, and like their own, their cavalry was mostly hidden from sight, perhaps behind a nearby hill, or concealed within the woods to the south west. The morning sun glittered on their maille and shone down on the banners carried in each block, denoting this House or that. Trumpets sang, and the foe came to a halt.

A brassy horn rang out in answer, and the Stormlands line stopped in turn. There was no telling what was going on elsewhere on the field, not from the front ranks, and so they waited, sweating and shifting from foot to foot. Low conversations spread through the block, men making plans for after the battle as if their survival was assured or thanking those they knew for their promise to watch over their family. Someone complained about being so far from the cool river breeze.

Through a gap in their line, a small group of horsemen rode, shining in plate armour and astride heavy horses adorned with strong barding. A great banner of yellow and black bearing a stag was held aloft, and Robert Baratheon led the way. They were matched by the same emerging from between the Reach forces, led by a man under a green banner boasting a red archer, and the two groups met between the armies. To hear what they discussed was impossible, even for ears as keen as Steve’s, and the wait stretched on. A man three rows back began to hack and cough uncontrollably.

“Have you done this before, Captain?” Ren asked, breaking the relative silence centred on the lone noble in the ranks. Her voice was steady, but it was a forced thing.

“Yes and no,” Steve said. He remembered the chaos of the battlefield in Wakanda, and then again at the compound, but that was not this, and the battles of the War were even more different. “Battles are different where I come from, but I’ve fought many.”

“Yes ser,” Ren said, and he could hear her swallow.

“No one over there can do what the Captain can,” Harwin said, gruffly reassuring.

“They’re only human,” Steve said. “Stick with me, and you’ll be fine.”

A breeze carried the scent of piss through the ranks as the nobles between the armies continued their discussion. Robert was gesturing angrily, pointing at the enemy leader, and snatches of shouts carried over to them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ren said, joking, and Artys snorted. They ignored the quaver in her voice.

The negotiations were clearly taking a turn for the worse, and Steve could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. It wouldn’t be long now, and he was not the only one to sense it. A final ripple of nerves and restlessness swept through the ranks, nearly a tangible thing. There was no time to give a speech, no way to be heard even if there was, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything to bolster those about to fight beside him.

His grip tightened on his hammer haft, just below the head, and he brought it down on his shield. A resounding clang rang out over the field, cutting through the fear. The note faded, but then came another. Clang. Eyes were drawn, and those close enough saw the giant in gleaming plate with hammer and shield, out of place in a line of hauberks and gambesons, of spears and shields. Clang. Those near him joined him this time, beating their weapon against whatever steel they had. Clang. Men stamped and snorted, fire building in their bellies as they cast away their doubts and their fears. Clang. It was spreading now, travelling the length of the line and building and building. Clang. Their Lord Paramount had drawn his hammer, gesturing widely to the army at his back, arms spread in challenge as he defied the small-seeming lordling before him. Clang. The drums of war beat gladly, and the negotiations concluded, drowned out by the fury of the Stormlanders. CLANG.

Robert Baratheon had seized his banner from the man carrying it, and he carried it with one hand as they rode back towards their lines, his hammer in the other, arms outstretched. The steady beat descended into an unceasing cacophony of metal on metal, men screaming themselves hoarse, all of it lost in the clamour. With his great antlered helmet and powerful frame he seemed almost a demigod out of myth as he turned to ride along the line rather than through it, and in that moment his men loved him.

The Reachmen had worked themselves up in answer, but whatever they had mustered had failed to reach them. At some unheard signal, their line began to advance, each block moving in rough concert. Robert stopped, his horse rearing, and he levelled his hammer at the foe like a malediction. There was no need for another signal. The men of the Stormlands began to move.

The field was large, but not so large as to keep them waiting. Adrenaline and crazed energy was kept in check as men marched to their deaths, and arrows began to soar overhead, whistling through the air towards the Reachmen. The volley did not go unanswered, another already falling towards them in turn. Steve let one skitter off his breastplate as he caught one heading for Artys on his shield, hammer going up to catch another two that would have gone over him. Curses and oaths of pain rose up from those unlucky enough to be hit, but still the armies advanced steadily.

More volleys rained down on both sides, and Steve saw the odd man collapse, victim to unlucky shots through the eye or neck, but he continued to intercept those within reach. The brassy horn rang out again, two short blasts, and their pace increased. Soon.

They were close enough to see the terror and fury on the faces of their enemies now, and growing closer still. The thunder of footsteps filled the air, and a wordless roar rolled with them. The white star banner was raised high and unveiled at the last moment, and then, impact.

Steve thrust his hammer out like it was a spear, spike taking the first unlucky foe in the chest, and hooked the man beside him around the neck as he pulled it back, bringing him into Hugo’s reach. He caught two blows upon his shield, and in the same heartbeat killed the two men to strike them, hammer sweeping through them. The soldier took a step forward.

The line rippled and recoiled from the crash, but only for a moment, and then the front ranks were pushing back in. Some parts of the field fought as they did, pressing hard and almost at knife point, while other sections found themselves duelling at spear length. Screams rose and were cut short, and blood was already heavy in the air. Steve slew three more men, catching a blow meant for Artys with his hammer and hooking the man to give it through the shoulder, drawing him in to bash him with the edge of his shield, driving it through the bridge of his nose and into his skull. He took another step forward.

Beyond the clash, Steve could see more blocks of Reachmen assembled and waiting. He turned side on to avoid a spear thrust, grabbing its haft as he brought his leg up to kick another man, caving in his chest. Ren lunged with her javelin, taking the first man in the neck, and he blocked the stab that aimed to take her in turn. The Reach seemed to be only matching the numbers against them, holding their advantage back until the opportune moment. He allowed his grip to slip up to just beneath the head of the hammer and punched out with it as a scrum sought to bury him, drawn by his banner and the space open before him. They died, shields splintering and armour caved in, breaking before his strength. He took another step forward.

Harwin was half-swording, bashing heads and opening throats, using the strength and endurance he had earned with Steve to protect the men beside him as best he could, jaw clenched tight. The press closed in on him, stifling him, and it was Hugo who saved him, lifting the foe before him to heave up and into those pressing his comrade. The move left him vulnerable, and Steve speared out with his hammer, taking a lunging swordsman in the gut. The spike caught in his armour, and Steve grunted as he lifted him high, screaming, to bring him down with a crash, shaking him free and crushing another man. He took another step forward.

Screams mixed with laughter came from Arland, the man’s face an unholy rictus as he hacked and bashed away with his mace and shield, lost to battle lust. Artys spun his spear to deflect two blows, moving through the motions that Keladry had drilled into him without thought, taking advantage of his strength and size and Arland’s sheer fury. The block they stood in was starting to turn to a wedge, as again the soldier stepped forward.

His men were at his shoulders now, not at his sides, but that only meant he had more room to swing. Two men died choking from his shield to give him an instant, and in that instant his hammer was brought back with incredible speed and unrelenting strength, sweeping through the next foes to stand before him. The force sent two of them up into the air, where they came down on friendly steel, screaming. Blood dripped down his forehead, but it was not his own. Again, the soldier stepped forward.

Behind him Ren stumbled over a still groaning corpse that did not yet understand it was dead, and finished the job with a quick stab, holding the banner high. It served to shade him as he fought, a small mercy given the heat of his armour. Trumpets sang, and a block of Reachmen towards the centre moved forward, heading for a gap that had opened. Steve drove a man into the ground and broke the neck of another with his shield as he eyed the manoeuvring, but there was little he could do from where he stood. Little, except break through and follow the plan. The soldier stepped forward.

Men fought, and men died. They were a wedge in truth now, Lord America at its head, and trumpets sang as their implacable advance continued. Another block of Reachmen moved to reinforce the line, but they would not come nearly quick enough. Steve could see the end in sight, only two more ranks left, his hammer spinning and smashing, cracking skulls and shattering bodies. He took another step, and then he was through.

The remnants of what had once been a block of several hundred Reachmen began to pull back, overcome by the unstoppable advance of the white star banner. Where once there had been men-at-arms and squires and hedge knights there were now two smaller masses of shocked men, as much huddled together as standing in formation. Steve turned and kicked out the knee of a greying squire, leaving him open for Hugo to punch in the face and spear through the neck, though his mind was on the battlefield.

“Ren, horn,” Steve barked, shield arm reaching back with an open hand. To either side, he could see more of his block breaking through, the foe crumbling rapidly now that they were effectively beset on two sides. The left flank was holding, anchored by the river, but the middle was starting to bow, especially where a portion of the Reach reserve had been committed to the opening, seeking to do what they were about to do to them in turn.

Ren blinked sweat from her eyes, but placed the horn he had trusted her with in his waiting hand. He took a moment to give her a nod, blue eyes and blood splattered face assuring her in ways mere words could not, and then he put the horn to his lips and blew.

Warriors shivered as the dirge call rang out, and the men of the Stormlands on the right flank began to turn, advancing as they came about to face south towards the river. Steve handed his horn back to Ren and set himself anew, putting aside all concerns but for the task at hand. A bellowing horn call answered from elsewhere, and again, the soldier stepped forward.

The Reach reserves were coming, but they would not arrive before the white star banner took their new leftmost flank in the side and rear at a run. The fog of battle saw this new threat take them almost entirely unprepared, and a new chorus was added to the cacophony of pained screams and roared warnings.

“Left flank, left flank!” a sergeant shouted, trying in vain to be heard. “Wheel abo-!”

He was cut off by a hammer to the neck, and died before he could understand that it was not just their side that was threatened, but their entire block as they were fell upon from behind. Trumpets sounded urgently as the Reach commander foresaw the left flank threatening to collapse and begin a domino effect that would undo the entire battle. He could hear hoofbeats above the terrible clamour of it all, and he didn’t need to look to know what was coming.

“Ren, lean right!” Steve boomed.

“Lean right!” Ren screamed in answer, tilting the banner to the right, towards the river. The block moved with it as best they could, those not already engaged falling upon the foe in a wave.

There was no skill involved in what came next. Steve fell into a grim rhythm as he scythed through the rear of the enemy block, Hugo then Harwin a moment after him and on down the block, the men they slew victim to their own tunnel vision. Pinned in place, there was nowhere for them to go as they were squeezed, Steve’s group crushing them into the anvil of the main line. The fight became a charnel house, and he added to it with every swing of his hammer and his shield. Steve pulped a man’s head from behind, and then he caught a spear thrust in his gauntlet, its wielder’s blood wet grip slipping along the haft as he suddenly found it immovable.

“Hold!” Steve roared in his face.

The Stormlander was shocked back into lucidity, coming back to himself as he realised there were no more foes before him. He gaped at the sight of the blood covered Lord America, trying to understand how the man leading the group to his right had come to be behind the foe.

There was no time to dally. They had crushed the left Reach flank, but now they were a jumbled mess standing on a carpet of corpses, and the battle was not yet won. They had to reform the line, and continue the plan.

“Step back!” Steve bellowed, and his voice rose above even the horrific clamour of the battle. “Step back!”

The cry was taken up, and slowly, torturously slowly, the two blocks began to separate. A horse’s high whinny soared over them as a lance of Stormland cavalry carved through the Reach reserve that had been sent in vain to shore up the flank, but Steve paid it no mind, trusting in the plan, and he took in the rest of the battle at a glance. Their own left continued to hold, but the middle was still being pressured hard, and he could see the bulk of the Reach reserves marching forward to join them. The foe meant to pierce their line and split it, crushing the southern half against the river while refusing the envelopment from the northern half.

The situation could turn perilous - but in peril there was opportunity. With the foe’s reserves committed, there were only two blocks left between the enemy command and the battle. If he could pin them in a fight, that command would be made vulnerable. He stomped hard on the neck of a man that had tried to stab Hugo in the leg with his last gasp of effort as he judged the battle, mind working furiously to find the path that would bring victory the fastest. He could hear men screaming for aid, for poppy, for mercy.

Opening the enemy command up to attack was less important than ensuring the centre held, and the numerical superiority of the Reach forces was starting to tell.

“Drive them to the river!” Steve boomed out, the envy of any drill sergeant. “South! Turn south!”

Separated now, the two blocks began to turn, the simple action threatening to destroy any sense of cohesion they had. If any of these men had seen a drill yard worth a damn together, he would eat his boot, and he felt frustration boiling up within him. They were moving too slowly.

“Ren, step forward and lead,” Steve commanded. “We form a wedge on the banner, if they can’t turn in time they can at least follow that.” The Stormland lance had thoroughly shattered the force coming for them, riding now to head off some Reach cavalry, and there were no immediate threats to them. They had time to form up, but not time to waste.

“Aye ser!” Ren shouted, her voice hoarse. Blood dripped down her brigandine, remnants of a bright red arterial spray, but her grip on the banner was strong. She moved, and near on a thousand men moved in her wake, following the banner.

“We move for the centre,” Steve called to his knights, voice terse. “Advance when ready; do not wait for my return.” He was jogging out of the line before they could do more than nod, moving to deal with the next problem. The block that had been to their left was moving far more sluggishly, lacking the leadership of his own, and he had to see to it.

A mass of men several hundred strong was not as large as one might think, but that didn’t make it any easier to manage, and they were wavering on the verge of turning into a mob. This was not a time for finesse, and Steve clashed his dripping hammer against his shield as he ran out before them, drawing their eyes.

“You!” Steve bellowed, pointing at the man on the end. “Move here! You! Keep him on your right!” He sprinted to the other end, shouting as he went, bringing the mass back into order, bringing them about to face south, side on to the ongoing battle. Less than one hundred metres away, men fought and died as the line pressed and pulsed, writhing like a living thing with a mind of its own.

Time in battle was a strange thing, and when he had them as ready as they could be he couldn’t say how long had passed. All he knew was that his time was running out; whoever was commanding the foe knew well what he was attempting, and he had to trust that friendly cavalry would continue to keep the enemy riders from bearing down on him and his.

“You see those men over there?” Steve roared, pointing at the nearest block of foes. “Go and kill them!”

A wall of noise was his answer, and the men surged forward.

Steve got out of their way, returning to his own formation at a sprint. Arland and Harwin hadn’t managed the same level of direction as he had, but through inertia and stepping faster than those stuck in the body, they had managed to form a shallow wedge. Steve slipped back into position at its tip, his leal men shifting to fall in at his sides like he had never left. The white star on the banner was shot through with red, but still it was held high and proud. The block on their left crashed into the line, but they advanced onwards, deeper towards the centre of battle.

Another Stormland lance thundered past them to meet the chivalry of the Reach, preventing them from intercepting Lord America. The men of the Stormlands were brave, but it was clear they were outmatched, the Reach having the edge in horseflesh and equipment. Still they sold their lives dearly, drawing the enemy away and refusing to let them disengage.

They closed on the mass of bodies that was their goal now, too close to make out what was happening by the river, but Steve saw the last of their infantry reserves committed to the centre. It was now or never. Those on the outside of the battle saw them coming, but they screamed their warnings in vain, no way to warn their fellows, no way to do anything but turn and prepare to meet them.

“Ren, lean left!” Steve ordered.

“Leaning left!” Ren shouted, tilting the banner.

The men followed the banner, turning in to collide with all the inexorable force of the tide. The shock echoed through the tightly packed mass, and what little resistance had been mustered was slain in an instant. Fear and dismay blew through the Reachmen as they realised they were attacked in the rear, led by a figure that none could match. There was no stopping the man who led the charge beneath the white star banner, and he reaped a bloody toll through the field that day, gore and viscera coating his armour and dripping from hammer and shield. Implacable blue eyes and a face carved from granite, dripping red, was the last thing that many saw.

The Lord America may have been foreign, given to strange notions and followed by stranger stories, but there was not a man with him that day not grateful that he fought on their side. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

X

When the trumpets sang the order for retreat , Steve noted it only distantly, busy keeping a Reachman from driving his sword any deeper into Hugo’s side, even as he kicked a man threatening Artys’ blind spot in the chest, launching him up and back. His shield caved in the skull of Hugo’s foe, and he looked for the next enemy. But there were none.

Already faltering, the order to retreat had only hastened the inevitable end. It was only those lost to the fight and the blood fever who still struggled, those who didn’t know the battle was lost. Those closest to the front ranks of the Reach forces remaining on the field threw down their weapons, even as those at the rear streamed away, turning and running for the transient safety of the hills or the woods. Some even fought to shed their armour, wading into the river, the only path left to them unblocked by friend or foe. A long swathe of mud and blood stretched from the dying fighting to the north, mute testament to the ferocity that had driven them towards the river.

Cavalry still duelled across the fields, screening and chasing, but the battle itself was over. The day had been won for the Stormlands. But at what cost?

He remembered the ordered blocks of men before the battle had started, the untouched meadow and the badger that had hurried its young away. There was none of that now, only a churned, bloody field watered red.

Steve looked around at the carnage, bringing his breathing under control. All around him were corpses and dying men and milling survivors, and he could feel the blood dripping down his face as their cries rose up. Ren vomited nearby, using the banner as support, and Hugo steadied her, but he was quick to follow suit, heaving noisily with a hand on his side. Both were just as blood stained as he.

He had seen many things in his time, but never had he seen a field of carrion like this. The camps were worse, and he had seen battles with more dead, but never carpeted like these. Weariness was replaced by a smouldering ember of cold rage. All these people, dead because of one man. Every corpse began the day as someone who thought they were defending their homes, and it was all down to a single man who would be king.

He wouldn’t stand for it. No matter how the war ended, he wouldn’t stand for one responsible for all this keeping their crown or their head once it was done. Even if he had to do it himself.

“Artys,” Steve said, swallowing in a failed attempt to ease the dryness in his throat. “Show me your eye.”

Artys turned, right eye closed and a red line carved over it. Like Steve, his face was splattered with blood, making it near impossible to tell how much was his.

In that moment Steve would have killed for a handkerchief, but as soon as the thought formed he felt his gut roil. He forced both down with an effort of will as he inspected the injury, courtesy of a spearman that had slipped as he thrust, getting past Steve’s defence by sheer accident.

“Slowly, stop holding your eye closed,” Steve told him. He did so, the muscles around his eye easing, and the eyelid flickered. He let out a breath of relief. “The eye isn’t damaged,” Steve said, and tension seeped from the man’s frame. “Don’t rub at it,” he ordered.

“Aye ser,” Artys said, legs beginning to tremble finely as the fight left him.

“Sit down, or walk it off,” Arland said to him, speaking with the weight of experience. He had come through the battle unharmed, but his mace was already at his hip, and his shield arm hung bonelessly as he paced as best he could, another figure without direction in the aftermath of the fight.

“Keep pressure on it,” Steve was saying to Hugo, receiving a nod as the big man sucked in careful breaths. His wound wasn’t an inch deep, but it was still a gut wound, and Corivo would have to have a look at it at some point. “Harwin?” he asked, glancing away from it.

“I am fine Captain,” Harwin said. “Barely touched me,” he lied through a split lip and a deeply bruised face. He spat out a glob of blood.

“You’re going to need those loose women with a face like that,” Steve said to him. The hilt bash that had caught him in the cheek could have been worse, and he had the experience to know if he needed help.

“Badge of honour,” Harwin insisted. “Will draw them in.” He spoke stiffly, the pain arriving as adrenaline faded.

Ren had recovered now, or perhaps expelled all there was to expel, and was supporting the banner as much as it was supporting her. She met his gaze and managed a nod, resolute despite her exhaustion.

Distant horns and screams caught his ear. The cavalry still skirmished, and he knew Keladry was leading his men out there somewhere, pursuing the fleeing and retreating enemy. He took a long, slow breath. There was work yet to be done.

All around them men were milling, shattered and fatigued in the wake of the battle. Some were directionless, unsure of their next step, while others had a purpose. For some that purpose was looting the dead, but others were more concerned with the still living enemy. With the noble cavalry engaged, there was little direction to be had.

“Arland,” Steve said, his tone making his people straighten, even if they were still weary. “You’re to take control of the men still fit to fight and police the surrender of the enemy. Strip them of their weapons and corral them away from the river.” As he spoke, he could hear the last pockets of fighting die out, but still there were men streaming away from the battle, most into the river now that their escape into the field was being cut off. “Artys, you’re with him.”

“Aye ser,” the two men said. Arland took a deep breath, bolstering himself, and shared a nod with Artys. They trudged off towards the mob of men along the river, picking through wandering soldiers.

“Harwin, you’re on stretcher duty,” Steve said. “Gather those not fighting fit, and get the badly injured out of this mess,” he said, gesturing to the churned bloody field.

“Get them where?” Harwin asked. One eye was beginning to swell, and it would get worse before it got better. “Camp?”

“No, just out of this,” Steve said. “For now.” He couldn’t help but berate himself internally. There should already be a unit approaching with what they needed to ferry the wounded back to Corivo and the barbers he had assumed control of, but his mind had been elsewhere, taking it for granted. His gaze shifted to Hugo.

“I’m fit to join,” Hugo said, though he didn’t take his hand from his side.

Steve eyed him, but gave a nod. “Ren, plant my banner over there,” he said, pointing at a section of field that had been marched over but not trampled into mud. He could hear Arland bellowing and browbeating his way through the muddled ranks by the river, forcing order. “You will be the point we organise around.”

“Aye ser,” Ren said. Her free arm was trembling, but the banner was steady against her shoulder.

“And you? Captain?” Hugo said, challenging. “You’re not going on without us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve said. “I’ll run back to camp, and have riders come for the wounded.”

Mulish expressions were his answer, but they accepted it. He felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering other comrades that were willing to argue with him for his own good.

“Be careful,” Steve told them. “The danger hasn't passed yet.”

“Aye ser,” the three of them said.

Steve turned east and started to jog, the army camp his goal, feet picking a path through corpses and puddles of mud and blood. Behind him he could hear Hugo calling for wounded, the big man’s voice booming over the field. He lacked the harness for his hammer, but it sat easy in his hand as he broke into a sprint, eating up the ground. The camp was barely a mile away, but every moment spent was time for life to be lost as they waited for aid. He’d have to be quick.

X

When Steve reached the camp, there was a welcoming party of about a dozen waiting for him. He could not say for sure who was amongst them, for his eyes were fixed on the woman at the front.

Naerys let out a breath as she saw him, healthy and whole, and she was already slipping from her mount as he poured on the speed to cross the last of the distance between them. He skidded to a stop before her, yearning to wrap his arms around her, but for the blood and gore he was still splattered by.

“Steve,” Naerys said, breathless. “You are well.”

“I told you I’d come back,” he said, and if his heart twisted in memory of the same broken promise, he kept it to himself.

“I knew you would,” Naerys said. She bit her lip, visibly fighting the same urge he was. She reached up to lay a hand on his cheek, ignoring the drying blood.

Steve leaned into it, though he didn’t close his eyes for that would mean taking them off her own. She wore the armour he had commissioned for her, and he placed his hand on her cuirass, over her heart. He would jump into Arctic ice water in that moment if it meant being clean enough to embrace her.

Someone coughed, breaking the moment. It was Samuel Errol, the older lord whose counsel Robert listened to most, who had told tales of Maelys. “Lord America, you bring news? We had word the battle was won.” He had been given command of the camp during the battle, being both capable and not one to take offence at being denied a fight.

“It was,” Steve said. He let his hand slip away from Naerys as she did the same, giving his attention to the rest of the party, though he did not step away. “Robert committed the cavalry in full, and I’ve set men to bring order to the field, but there are wounded. We need to start ferrying them to the medics - the barbers and Doctor Corivo.”

“I can help, Lord Steve,” a young voice said.

Steve had to do a double take as he saw that Toby was the one to speak. He was on Khal, the black beast quivering with restrained tension. “If Keladry didn’t order you to stay put -”

“For the battle, but battle’s over right? Lord Steve,” Toby said, voice a rush. “I can keep the horses calm and I won’t need but a handful of men.” He spoke carefully, almost on the verge of eloquently.

It was downright strange hearing him put the lessons he had resisted so strongly to use, and Steve shared a look with Naerys. She gave a faint nod.

“Lord Errol, can you second some men to my ward?” Steve asked. “And some to help guard the prisoners taken.” He ignored the small fist pump of victory Toby made.

Errol glanced between Steve and Toby, but only for a moment. “I will see it done,” the old lord promised, already turning to make good on his word, speaking to those with him that didn’t belong with Steve.

“Where’s Lyanna?” Steve asked. He had planned for the worst going into the battle, and that meant his noncombatants being prepared to escape to safety.

“She went off to help Betty and her girls,” Naerys said, corners of her mouth turning down in displeasure, “after Robin joined Keladry.”

“He’s part of my squad,” Steve said, tone growing sharp. “He should be with those guarding the noncombatants.”

“He claimed no orders from you,” Naerys said.

Steve schooled his face. He hadn’t given Robin any orders, because he thought his orders to his squad clear. He would have to question his squire when he returned to see if it was a deliberate misunderstanding or not. “I’ll speak with him later. Where are my men?”

“I set them to guard the girls,” Naerys said. “Toby and I are armed and ready to ride as necessary, and the battle is won.” Her tone wasn’t quite challenging.

“It is,” Steve acknowledged, “but I would prefer knowing you had more than your sword to guard you, as I ordered.”

“I have Toby,” Naerys said, and this time it was challenging.

Steve let out a disgruntled sigh, ceding the point. “Toby, the horses are ready?”

“As ye wanted,” Toby said. “Half of ‘em saddled.” Blue eyes flicked off to the side of the camp where the corral had been erected with stakes and ropes.

“Off you go and get them moving,” Steve said. “You’ll follow me; do not ride ahead.”

Khal was moving before he had finished speaking, as if the warhorse understood his words.

“Lord America, the men,” Lord Errol said, returning to them. Two dozen men were returning at a canter at the heels of the knight he had sent off to fetch them.

“Thank you,” Steve said, brusque and raising his voice. “Men, look for my banner. The wounded will be gathering around it. Your job is to get them mounted if they’re fit for it, or to put them on your own mount and ride back with them if they’re not, carefully! Questions?” None were forthcoming.

“I’ll warn Corivo, and prepare servants to receive,” Naerys said, nudging her mount to turn.

Steve gave her a nod and a last look. “On me!” he commanded, and then he was turning back towards the battlefield, the men following. The thunder of hoofbeats came in their wake, as Toby led a herd of horses after them, one boy leading the entire mob.

It did not take them long to return to the field of battle, and when they did they found wounded waiting for them around his banner. They had met some few wounded men staggering back to the camp, having missed or ignored the word to gather for transport, and Toby had directed horses to them without needing to be told. Harwin and Hugo had spread the word well enough that the rest had begun to gather around the banner by their own power, and it was there that the Lord America began to get them organised, calling orders in a calm tone. Those whose wounds were more an inconvenience than a danger found themselves pressed into helping, some sent off with half the men from the camp to help in policing the prisoners, while the rest helped their more hurt comrades into saddles.

In short order, a smooth routine had been established, as horses rotated past the gathering to the surprise of the men, as if they could understand the orders of Lord America’s bastard son, calmly picking up a bloodied or insensate soldier, before joining the steady line of horses now leading back to the camp. It was not a quick task, not one to be hurried carelessly, but an ease spread amongst the wounded who were well enough to see it, secure in the knowledge that help was coming, that they would not need to drag or let themselves be dragged back to the sawbones.

There was some stirring amongst them when the lord in charge of it all called loudly for the most wounded Reachmen to be included in the procession, but the first man to make a sound of discontent found himself pinned by the bloody warrior’s gaze, and he swallowed back the words that had been about to bubble up. It was only then that the lord’s gaze moved on, that the man found himself able to breathe again.

It was not a task completed quickly, and they were still at it when the first of the cavalry began to return, wounded, battered, with horses missing riders, but triumphant and grinning despite it.

“They are routed!” Silveraxe called as he neared at the head of a lance of knights, not quite one hundred strong. “Well and truly defeated!”

A ragged cheer went up amongst the wounded, and then a louder one from the men guarding the prisoners, and from those that had begun to pick over the battlefield searching for the living. And perhaps loot, but that was a lesser problem.

“Where’s Robert?” Steve asked without looking over, focused on lifting a man up to his pal already mounted to steady.

“Still hounding them,” the lord called, the lance slowing as they passed. “He smashed an enemy lance almost as well as you smashed their line, Lord America! Opened up their command for Ser Keladry!”

Steve’s head turned sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I won’t be the one to ruin the telling for him,” Silveraxe called, trotting by. “Lord Baratheon ordered him to ride back as well; he won’t be far.” They were quickly out of shouting range, riding along the line of wounded and calling encouragements.

Focusing on the work before him, Steve tried not to think of what it meant that Keladry had tangled with the enemy command. He tore up strips of leather for tourniquets and tunics for bindings, falling into the work, but he did not have to wait long for an answer.

“Lord America!” a cheerful voice, too cheerful in the midst of the dead and dying, called out to him.

He looked up, prepared to deliver a stern look, only to have his attention arrested by the leader of the column beside the overly cheerful lord. While the lord led another lance of cavalry, they rode beside Steve’s own men, and Keladry was at their head, Walt at her side. They were scuffed and bloodied, and Walt had mud on his arms and blood in his teeth somehow, but they were whole. At a quick glance, he couldn’t make out any losses, but that didn’t mean anything. He couldn’t see Robin.

“Where’s Robin?” Steve demanded.

“He volunteered to bring up the rear,” Keladry said, hardly blinking at the sudden demand.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I bet he did.”

“Lord America,” the lord called again, too excited and high on battle to be deterred. He reached over to clap Keladry on the shoulder with a clang of metal. “Your man Keladry is a warrior in your own image! I didn’t believe he was not yet a knight!”

“Oh?” Steve asked, stepping away from his task, letting another man take over. He approached the mounted men so they could speak without raising their voices. A glance at Keladry told him nothing, her mask of self control too good.

“Not for much longer though, I’d wager,” the lord japed. Even the dimple in his breastplate, courtesy of some blow or another, wasn't dampening his enthusiasm. “Crossed steel with Tarly he did! Damned good fight. Quick, but damned good, even if he escaped.”

Steve turned a considering look on Keladry, lips quirking, impressed. “Sounds like it was something.”

A hint of embarrassment slipped through Keladry’s self control. “It was no great duel.”

Walt snorted, making his thoughts clear.

“Ha!” the lord barked with a laugh. “Too many saw for you to get away with that!” He clapped her on the shoulder again, prodding his horse back into a walk, and his lance followed him.

“What happened?” Steve asked. Behind him, he could feel some of the men slowing to listen in, even as he scanned his own men, checking on them as he received tired grins and nods.

“I crossed blades with Lord Tarly, the enemy commander,” Keladry said. “He is a skilled warrior.”

Walt snorted again, shaking his head.

Steve turned his questioning gaze on him.

“Baratheon gutted their strongest force, and dragged another into melee,” the old soldier said. “Keladry led us through an opening and right at Tarly as the man was starting to rally them that were fleeing.” He spat to the side. “Was a good hill for it. Could’ve dug in on it like a tick, if not for this one.”

“That does sound worth a knighting,” Steve said, before turning something that was certainly not a smirk on her. “I’m sure that Ser Keladry will be asked for the tale many times from here on.”

“No,” Keladry said firmly.

“This doesn’t sound like a small deed,” Steve said, more serious now. “You’re su-?”

“My lord,” she said, resolute. “No.”

“It’s your choice,” Steve said, raising his free hand in surrender. The last of the levity faded as he glanced over the men once more. “What about…?”

She grimaced. “One dead. A lance splinter went through Benji’s eye. Dale took a knock to the head and he hasn’t woken up.”

Steve looked around at the field of corpses, and the already gathering carrion crows. As the living were found and removed, the birds only grew bolder, and the scene more telling. “Heavy price,” he said. “Could have been heavier, without a good leader,” he added, giving her a pointed look.

“As you say,” Keladry said. Whatever she thought was hidden, but Walt met Steve’s eyes, and they shared a nod.

“Get the men seen to,” Steve told them. “And have…Henry and Yorick take over for Arland and Harwin here. Take Artys and Hugo back with you, too.” He saw Ortys ease, further down the column, as he heard word his twin was safe. “I’ll join you at camp when the work here is finished.”

“Aye Captain,” Keladry said, taking only a moment to rub Redbloom on the neck and resettle her glaive, before setting off again, passing orders down the line as she did.

His men followed, and he stayed in place as they passed, making sure to meet the eyes of every man, giving a nod and sharing a quiet word here and there. His lips thinned as he saw Dale, a young guardsman, pass by still unconscious, kept in his saddle by Osric seated behind him, head lolling about.

At the rear came Robin, studiously avoiding meeting Steve’s eyes, and he hunched in on himself as he felt the narrowed gaze heavy upon him. As he trotted by, he risked a look up, only to immediately shy away as he met the disappointed stare of his knight master. He could still feel it on his back as he left the field behind.

Steve shook his head. There would be time to speak with his squire later. For now, he had a task to see to.

Noon came and went as they worked, the light clouds overhead a poor concession to the misery of the day. The wounded were separated from the dead, prisoners were marched off, and victorious knights filtered back in, laughing and boasting as they avoided the now stinking battlefield. Lord Baratheon was still out there, leading men, but he steadily sent men back to have their injuries seen to or to fetch fresh horses. Steve did similar, sending those uninjured who had still fought back to rest, while keeping those of the rear ranks who were still mostly fresh to help. If the task dragged on, he would rotate them again, but it did not seem that would be necessary. He was supervising as a man with a shattered leg was carefully placed onto a litter dragged behind a horse when he was joined by another, plate clinking as he dismounted and stepped up beside him.

“Lord America,” the newcomer said.

“Lord Errol,” Steve answered. “All well at the camp?”

“Well enough that I can step away, even if only for a moment,” Errol said. “That quartermaster of yours has a sharp tongue on her.”

“Naerys has a sharper mind,” Steve said. “If she was turning her tongue on someone, they did something to deserve it.”

“He did,” the old lord said, a hint of a smile showing through his short white beard, though it quickly faded. He surveyed the field, taking in the crows pecking at the dead and eating their fill. There were men picking their way through it, removing dead Stormlanders to be placed in rows nearby, but they could only shoo the carrion away so much as they worked. “Wicked waste.”

“It always is,” Steve said, “but this time more than most.” With the dried leavings of battle still on him, the look on his face was one to set green boys and maidens to quailing.

“Oh?” Errol said, prompting. From the day Steve had first met him after linking up with Robert, he had been the sort to speak only after thinking.

“The man responsible for this sits on a throne far away,” Steve said. “But it’s men who thought they were defending their homes who die for it.”

“You have the right of it,” Errol said. “I thought war to be a glorious thing, when my hair was still black, and I had fewer wrinkles.”

A crow fluttered down to land on Steve’s banner. Ren had long planted it in the ground to go and aid the wounded, and it cocked its head at the two men as it observed them with the uncanny intelligence that some corvids had.

“The only sight sadder than a battle lost is a battle won,” Steve said, sharing something that old Colonel Phillips had told him.

“Wise words,” Errol said. “Green boys don’t know, not until they see it.”

Steve thought of Robin, sneaking off to join Keladry in riding out, and sighed. “They don’t.” He hadn’t seen anything of battle and war in the art of this country that didn’t glorify it. Maybe that ought to change. “One day they never will.”

“Not today,” Errol said, hand settling on his sheathed sword.

“No,” Steve said. “Not today.”

The crow took flight, cawing, each cry sounding like war, war, war.

For a time, they watched the field as it was picked over, and the rare man was found still holding tight to life. The grim work was not yet done, but it soon would be. They would not be able to stay to see to it, however, as a man galloped up to them, haste in every inch of him.

“Lord Errol!” the messenger said in a rush. “There’s been a fight at the camp. Lord America’s men set upon some returning sers. It’s bad.”

Steve thought an impolite word, already casting about for where he had left his hammer. His men would have a good reason for what they did or he’d know why.

“I’ll require you for this,” Errol told him, already making for his horse. “Best to sort it swiftly.”

Finding his hammer standing where he had driven it into the ground, top spike first, he pulled it free and began a jog. “See you there,” he said tersely. Then he was running, leaving the field and Lord Errol behind.

X

Violence simmered in the air despite the glut of killing already done that day, as two groups threatened to come to blows at the entrance to the Stormland camp. Blows and blood had already been shed, but more threatened to come. Camp guards and weary fighters were gathered around two groups, one noble knights, the other some of Steve’s own men. Caught almost between them were a dozen camp followers, all women, and all unfamiliar. Terror was worn plainly on their faces as they cowered against each other, as if trying to disappear from the attentions of the two groups shouting and hurling abuse at one another.

Walt was at the head of his men, speaking lowly to the knight across from him, cruel and cutting, while the man shouted back, spittle flying. The old soldier had a splash of fresh blood across his face, bright like a threat and clearly not his own. Around them men swore and cursed, pushing and gesturing, violence only a heartbeat from breaking out. Such was their fury that the spectators were rightfully wary of putting themselves between them.

Steel rasped free from a sheath, and Walt leaned forward, bloody dagger half hidden behind his back. It was only the sudden arrival of a blood stained giant in heavy plate armour that put a hold on the looming violence. He was through the tense crowd before more than a few even realised he had arrived, though those that had witnessed it were gaping openly. A sword was forced back into its sheath, and a dagger swipe slapped away, and then Steve was between the two groups, kneeling before the women caught between them.

“Are any of you injured?” Steve asked them, looking them over as best he could. They wore no finery, their rough garments stained by work, and the hands of many were raw from hard work.

Some of them froze, others shook their heads jerkily, and all kept their mouths clamped shut. One woman had a newly bruised and swelling jaw, small cuts on her cheek from the gauntlet that delivered the blow, and her eyes were fixed on the ground. She glanced up to meet Steve’s eyes, only to swiftly avert her gaze again.

Steve kept his anger from showing, rising back to his feet. He surveyed the suddenly quiet gathering, looking for someone suitable. He found her, approaching quickly from deeper in the camp, one hand on the sword at her hip.

“Naerys,” he said as she arrived. “Escort these women to the healing tent. They can assist Betty and her crew until Corivo has a chance to examine them.”

There was immediate outrage from the score or so of knights on one side.

“-are our prisoners-”

“-who do you think-”

“-you would let servants of the enemy tend to our wounded?!”

Steve stilled, turning slowly from where Naerys was coaxing the women up and out from the crowd. “Remind me again,” he said, “why we’re fighting here?”

Walt let out a low laugh, dark and amused. The threat of violence crept back into the air.

“It had something to do with a man taking a woman against her will, didn’t it.” Steve said.

“Speak clearly, and do not hide behind a mummer’s words,” the apparent leader of the knights said. His face told a tale of a hard life and hard won victories. “What do you mean to imply?”

“You don’t want to make the same mistake Aerys did.”

It was hardly a gruesome threat, but something about the way he said it cast a pall over the crowd. A clatter of hooves came after it, and Lord Errol arrived on his mount, skidding to a stop to level a gimlet eye over the crowd, taking in the two groups still raring to go at each other, and the group of women being led away.

“What is this?” Errol demanded, tone brooking no delay.

“This lowborn wretch and his brigands set upon my men as we returned to camp,” the lead knight said, sneering at Walt and quick to turn from Steve.

Walt bared his teeth in something that couldn’t be called a smile. It had a goading mien to it, like he knew something the knight didn’t.

“The entire battle unscathed, only to be near crippled in our own camp!” the knight said, lip curling. “You’ll not wear so insolent a smirk when you lose the hand you dared to lay upon me and mine.”

“I coulda cut your man’s balls off, and I wouldn’t see a whit of punishment,” Walt said, taunting.

“You see!” the knight said, gesturing in affront. At his back, his fellows roiled at the insult, sharing dark mutterings.

“Enough!” Lord Errol demanded. “The first man to draw steel will see out the day in the stocks.”

“Walt. What happened?” Steve asked. He could see evidence of a fight on his men, but that meant little when they were fresh from the battlefield. Where Keladry and the rest were he didn’t know.

“Keladry asked for volunteers to go and help you with the cleanup,” Walt said, cutting mockery replaced with disciplined respect. “We were on our way when we saw this lot returning with their ‘prisoners’.” His lip curled with seething contempt. “Not hard to guess what they meant for them. We know our orders.”

Steve glanced over his men once more. They were fewer than the knights, not quite twenty strong, but he saw Gerold and Humfrey amongst them, as well as Willem and a few more of Ren’s close companions. The blond Vale knight Than was with them, as was his fellow Richard, an older hedge knight who had taken well to mentoring others. All of them were united in their disgust for the group of knights, and in their support for Walt’s report.

“You saw us escorting the mewling quims to be locked away, and you attack my men for it?” the knight said, outrage clear in his voice, though there was a coldness to his eyes that was out of step with it. He turned fully to face Lord Errol. “I demand justice!”

“Did you take those women with the intent to rape and abuse them?” Steve asked, cutting off any answer Lord Errol might have given.

The knight choked on his anger, face reddening.

“We are knights of the Seven!” another man cried, as if that was defence enough, but he was ignored.

“Answer me, ‘knight’,” Steve said.

“No,” the knight ground out, a blood vessel in his forehead pulsing. “Accuse me again and once this war is over, I will have satisfaction from you.”

"What would those women say, if we asked them?"

“What?” For a moment, the knight didn’t understand, baffled. Then the words reached him. “You would take the word of baggage train whores and put them against that of anointed knights?!”

“What oath did you swear when you were knighted?” Steve asked, stepping forward, pressing him now. He found his head lowering, bullish. “The one to the Maiden.”

Insults and refutations rose from the knights, but the man at their head only glowered at him, teeth pressed together and nostrils flaring.

“Awful lot of men here to escort a few camp followers,” Steve said. He leaned in, speaking quietly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you meant no evil with them.”

The last tether of the knight’s self control snapped, and he swung a gauntleted fist wildly.

Steve could have dodged it. He could have caught it on the chin of his helm unflinchingly. He could have beaten the man into the ground to give him a taste of what it meant to be at the mercy of someone stronger. He chose to do none of these things, instead dropping his hammer and reaching up to catch the man’s fist in the palm of his hand.

There was a loud clash of metal on metal, and then the sound of the hammer spike sinking into the ground. Those around blinked, their reactions to the assault put on hold as they saw what had come of it.

“You’re awful quick to throw hands,” Steve said, arm not budging as the man tried to free his fist. “Were you the one to give that lady the blow to her face?”

“You cur,” the knight said, snarling, trying to hide the effort he was exerting to free himself. “All this, over some whores?!?”

Steve remembered a tournament feast, and another low man whose arm he had grabbed after they laid hands on a woman. His own temper rose, and he began to squeeze. “I’m no untrained dame,” he said. “You should’ve thought twice before you picked a fight you couldn’t handle.” Slowly, he tightened his grip.

“You fucking-” he broke off, hissing through his teeth as he began to feel pain.

Metal started to creak, and Steve looked to the other so-called knights, ignoring their leader. They were unsure, edging towards intervening but unable to look away from the twisting and buckling of the gauntlet in Steve’s grip. “Everyone here knows what you meant for those women. You know you were wrong, so you play at denying it, but we know. You call yourselves knights, but you fall short of your oaths.”

The knight tried to hold back a sound of pain, but it was pried from his throat all the same as Steve continued to squeeze.

“Let me be clear. If anyone in this army - anyone at all - abuses those that can’t defend themselves, they will be dealt with,” Steve said, letting his voice carry as he swept his gaze around. More and more people had been drawn by the spectacle, men returning from the battle, from lords to escorted prisoners, as well as those stationed at the camp. The main entrance to the camp threatened to become blocked, and Steve even caught a brief glimpse of the straw hair of Robert’s squire. “I don’t care what title you have. I don’t care how you justify it. If you bully and abuse the weak, the Targaryens with all their dragons couldn't save you."

Lord Errol’s horse stamped and whickered, the old lord sitting tall in his saddle. “A smart man might consider how our lord might react to such behaviours when his own betrothed is at the mercy of the enemy,” he said, loud enough to be heard by all.

A choked scream of pain punctuated the point, the knight grasping and heaving at his captured fist now, not even attempting to mask his position of weakness.

“I think that’s enough, Lord America,” Errol said, reasserting his control over the situation. “The man has earned a reminder of his oaths.”

Steve released the unnamed knight, and he almost fell back, clutching his arm to his chest. The gauntlet was mangled and twisted; it would be a delicate business to get it off his hand without doing permanent damage. Two of his fellows stepped forward, making to bustle him into the camp and away from the scene of their shaming. Steve made sure to mark their faces in his mind.

“Clear the way!” Lord Errol ordered. “If you’ve no task to see to, you will find one or I shall find it for you!”

The threat proved effective, as the bulk of those gathered quickly began to filter away, clearing the way for those outside the camp wanting in. Walt and the others notably did not join them, remaining by their captain.

Lord Errol nudged his horse over to them. “That went about as well as could be expected,” he said, as much to himself as to Steve.

Steve turned a questioning eye on him.

“You made your position clear when you first joined us,” Errol said. He doffed his helm, rubbing at mostly white hair. “The enmity of a lowly lord without high connections is a small price to pay.”

“That was a lord?” Steve asked. Behind him, Walt scoffed.

“Landed knight, I believe,” Errol said, though his attention had been drawn by Walt. “And you - best you stay away from the men you sent to the doctor before our arrival. I was told what you did to them, and there are limits.”

“If they don’t come lookin’ for me, they won’t see me, milord,” Walt said, bowing slightly.

Long experience apparently had the lord quick to note the gaps in Walt’s words, but he said nothing on it, only pursing his lips. “I will no doubt see you at the victory feast tonight.”

“If the work is done, sure,” Steve said.

“Do not wear yourself out, Lord America,” Errol said, turning his horse towards the camp. “There’s a long war ahead.”

They watched him ride away, the last of those around disappearing with him, leaving Steve alone at the camp entrance with his men. He turned his gaze on them, and they waited, expectant.

“Every one of you upheld the tenets of knighthood better today than they ever have,” Steve said.

Walt ducked his head, as if embarrassed, but the thought was so strange it didn’t compute. “‘Twere the right thing to do,” he said, half mumbling. The men with him stood tall, pride writ across every inch of them.

Steve found himself assessing Walt anew, considering. Keladry might have turned him down, but he could still knight anyone he felt worthy of it. Something to keep in mind for the future, perhaps. “An extra ration of wine for you all, too.”

Smiles broke out to join the pride, and Gerold clapped Humfrey on the back.

“Where’s Keladry, and the rest of the men?” Steve asked, getting back to business.

“He decided against a third sortie, an’ sent the men to sort their horses and see to any injuries,” Walt said. “Keladry went to check on the boy.”

The occasional horse was still trotting up to camp bearing wounded, but they were becoming more and more spaced apart. The battle was well and truly over, and if one listened intently, distant horns could be heard as cavalry lances communicated with one another to regroup.

Keladry would take responsibility for the men still on the field, and keep Toby from getting up to too much mischief besides. He held back a sigh, aware of the work yet to be done. “Let Keladry know what happened here when you see him. I don’t want you lingering on the field too long. If I’m needed, I’ll be at the medic’s tent.”

“Aye Captain,” came the chorused answer, the men still standing tall.

“Go on, away with you,” Steve told them, and they went, most not caring to hold back their grins and high moods. He watched them go, jogging off towards the corral. For some, the day had been the goal of all they had been training for, and for others, an impossible daydream come true. The martial culture of the land was not one he cleaved so closely to, but he could still appreciate what it meant for those who had followed him to war. He let out the sigh he had been holding in, turning for the river. If he was going to help out Corivo, he would need to clean up first.

X

The medical tent was less of a tent and more a series of tarps suspended by ropes and poles. Without walls, the breeze was free to drift through, bringing some small measure of relief to the wounded and dying as an overworked team of sawbones, butchers, barbers, and a lone doctor did their best to ease suffering and save lives. To one side there were a number of fires, kept stoked by camp servants to boil water in the large cauldrons hanging over them. A doughy woman directed men and women like a general, ordering them about and ensuring that boiled water was taken off the flames and poured into a nearby row of waiting kegs, carefully muscled up and poured in by strong men.

As Steve approached the scene, he watched as a butcher hurried out of the tent and towards one of the kegs, a string of Valyrian curses pursuing him. There was a young boy waiting for him, a page, and the kid turned the tap on the keg in time for bloody hands to be held out. Steaming water poured forth as the man scrubbed vigorously, shoulders hunched as Corivo continued to harangue him. He was not the only one, medics and assistants hurrying in a stream to clean their hands between patients, but he was apparently the only one who had to be reminded to do so. Steve stopped by the woman in charge of the operation, waiting for a keg to free up.

“Betty,” Steve said, giving her a once over. She seemed fine, if sweating from the heat of the work.

“Lord America,” Betty said. She made to curtsey, but it was a distracted thing, her stern gaze still on her workers.

“Any problems?” he asked.

“Nothing couldn’t be solved,” she answered. She still had a certain plumpness about her, but the strength that came from stirring large vats of washing had been bolstered by the training Steve had included the company servants in. “Got those Reacher women boiling bandages.” She jerked her head towards another set up, closer to the river, where the women Naerys had escorted away were putting soiled bandages through a series of pots.

“Naerys passed the story on then?” Steve said.

“Aye,” Betty said. She clicked her fingers at a nearby man, pointing to something to direct him when he looked up. “Best thing is to keep them busy. You deal with them?”

“Shamed them before witnesses, gave their leader a busted hand,” Steve said. It wasn’t ideal, but the institutional will for proper discipline wasn’t there and he lacked the authority to make a more formal response work.

“Good,” Betty said with a grunt. “I’ll make sure the girls stick close to some of the boys.” She turned to look to him. “What’re you-” she stopped, words escaping her for a moment as she took him in.

Steve looked down at himself, unsure what had prompted the reaction. He had doffed his armour and set a convenient pack of young squires to cleaning it, before dunking himself in the river for a good cold scrub. He hadn’t been able to find a towel, but he had kept his clothes mostly dry.

Betty coughed, flushed from the heat of the nearby fires and the hard work. “What’re you planning for them Reacher girls?”

“If they have somewhere nearby they want to go, I’ll see them escorted there,” Steve said. “Otherwise, I figure you could use some extra hands.”

“I could,” Betty said, wiping sweat from her brow. “Could make some extra coin too, offering laundry outside the company. We’d see our duties through first of course, milord.”

“If you’ve got the time, by all means,” Steve said. He held up a hand as Betty made to say something. “If you’re about to offer me a portion, don’t.”

Betty closed her mouth, watching him with pursed lips. “You’ll be taken advantage of some day, Captain.”

“Maybe,” Steve said, shrugging. “But they won’t do it twice.” He had been scanning the currents of servants and soldiers around them, looking for faces he was responsible for, and he had already spied Joyce, Jayne, and Jeyne working the cauldrons, but now he saw Ursa too, exiting from under the medic tent.

“Milord,” Ursa said as she hurried up, weighed down by buckets full of bloody bandages, though she slowed as she passed. “Ser Henry do anything foolish?” She was speaking quickly and breathing hard, though there was a thread of worry beneath her levity.

“He’s fine,” Steve said, sharing a quick glance with Betty, who was carefully not rolling her eyes. “Not that you were worried or anything.”

Ursa bit her tongue, settling the buckets that hung from a stick across her shoulders more comfortably. “He owes me a stag, is all.”

“I didn’t think you were wagering coin in that game,” Steve said, affecting mock confusion.

The young Vale woman blushed scarlet and hurried onwards, ducking her head and pretending a lack of time to respond, though chuckles yapped at her heels.

“You’re a good lord, Captain,” Betty said, her smile fading. “I hope you know that.”

“I do what anyone should,” Steve said.

Betty clucked to herself. “There’s a reason Lady Naerys fell so hard for you. Does my old heart well to see it.”

“Old?” Steve asked, putting aside the core of her words. “You’re a spring chicken, Betty.”

“Thirty four and twice widowed,” Betty said with a grumble, flapping a hand at him. “Save your sweet words for your lady.”

“I might do that,” Steve said, finally spying the dame in question in the medic tent. “Keep up the good work, and pass my thanks along to the girls.”

“I will, milord,” Betty said.

Taking an opening at one of the hand washing kegs, Steve rubbed his hands vigorously under the steaming water, ignoring the splash of red tinged mud at his feet. As rudimentary as it was, it was better than going from patient to patient with hands still stained with the blood of dozens of men. He nodded to the page to open the keg for him, and then dove into the haste and mess of the medic tent.

He had had bare moments to speak with Naerys after the battle earlier, and only an instant to share a look during the confrontation with the unworthy knights earlier, and it was clear that that wasn’t about to change. He barely had a moment to take her hand, and then she was guiding him to take over for her in holding down a man as he writhed and moaned in pain while Corivo eased an arrow from his side. Now held perfectly still, the Myrish doctor was able to get it out without causing further damage, and he quickly began to stitch the wound closed with a needle and thread handed to him by Lyanna.

“Robin is uninjured,” Steve murmured to the girl.

Lyanna didn’t answer verbally, though she nodded, lips pressed together thinly. There was little time for more, their focus demanded in the pursuit of saving lives.

“Steve, I need your strength,” Corivo said, still putting the finishing touches on the stitches. “Two beds behind me and three to my right, there is a man with a - his leg bone into the pelvis, it needs rebreaking, else he will limp the rest of his life.”

Steve nodded, and from there it was all a rush and race against time, doing their best to help whom they could, making the cold decisions that triage demanded. He resolutely ignored the litany of thoughts that told him exactly how he could have saved this or that man that was given wine or poppy for the pain and then left to die, if only he had the tools. It was not the first such time he had been forced to deal with such things, and he hated how he was becoming accustomed to it. There was only the rush and race, and saving every life he could.

Time passed, afternoon coming and going. There was a clamour elsewhere as the bulk of the nobility returned to much acclaim, tales of victory and triumph on their lips, but there was bloody work of a different sort yet to do, and those working spared little time for it all.

“Did we win?” a man asked desperately, looking up at Steve through his one working eye, only just coming back to himself.

“We did,” Steve said, even as he did his best to clean the cut across his eyelid.

“Then, the Stormlanders are pushed out?” He gripped at Steve’s shirt, hungry for answers.

“...heck. I’m sorry son. You’re in the Stormlands camp. The Reach army was routed.”

The man moaned and went limp, his arm falling down.

“You won’t be mistreated, and your home will not be razed,” Steve said firmly, still cleaning blood from the jagged cut that ran from brow to chin. “You have family anywhere?”

The man could only nod.

“Focus on living for them,” Steve said. “You’ll see them again. You’re not here by accident, and you’ll be housed with your countrymen once we’ve healed you as best we can.”

There had been those who had protested on the field when Steve had directed his people to gather the wounded foemen too, but those protests hadn’t lasted long under his gaze.

By the time the worst of the work was done, the sun was starting to creep towards the horizon, and breakfast seemed a long, long time ago. Many sawbones and barbers had taken breaks and returned, and Naerys had been called away by other business, but Steve and Corivo had pushed through unrelenting, Lyanna bringing them waterskins as they worked.

It was a relief to exit the tents and know they had done the best they could, finally stepping away from the scent of blood and pain. The small force of servants and assistants had fought a battle just as tiring as the actual battle, and it was clear in every inch of their frames as they trudged onwards in their tasks. Steve clapped Ed on the back, the Valeman’s blond beard peppered with blood and sweat. For all that he staggered as he limped out of the tent, he had done well with putting into practice all that he learned in his work as Corivo’s assistant.

Still, though, Steve’s day was not yet done. He shared a nod with those with him, and turned for his next task.

X x X

The sun was near to setting, but the fire in the middle of their gathering cast light enough for their needs. Every man and woman that had followed Steve to war were gathered, the noise of the camp around them a distant thing, dampened by the solemn air.

“We lost two of our own today,” Steve said, voice piercing the quiet. Benji, a carpenter from Gulltown, had been felled by an errant lance splinter. Dale, a knight originally from the Riverlands, had never woken up after taking a mace to the head. “Both were good men, and a credit to this company. Benji has a sister in service with the Arryns of Gulltown, and Dale leaves behind a daughter and her mother in Riverrun.”

Some of those listening bowed their heads, while others watched the fire, eyes distant.

“Benji tried and failed to flirt an extra serving of honey out of Betty every morning, but I saw him share his food with that stray dog that kept begging back at the Gates,” Steve continued, and now there were wry grins and nudges. “Dale was the second grumpiest member of this company in the mornings, but he still had time to spar with anyone who asked for it.”

Corivo raised his arm where he sat on a log, resting tired legs, and Steve tossed the bundled dog tags he held to him. “In Pentos,” he began, tone sombre, “I tried to tell him that the gorgeous woman he was flirting with had a bigger manhood than him.” Choked laughter rose around the fire. “Alas, some things are only learned through experience.” More laughter came, as those who had witnessed it remembered the shriek Benji had given before fleeing back down into the tavern. The Myrman tossed the tags to the next hand raised for them.

“To hear Dale tell it, his girl was smarter than any archmaester, even if I once saw him get lost twice in the same street,” Yorick said. “After this is over, I think I’ll make sure she knows how much her daddy bragged about her.”

The dog tags were passed on to the next to ask for them, and stories uplifting and embarrassing were shared, the newfound tradition upheld and enshrined in the culture of the company. Loss was loss, but laughter helped to ease it, and those present learned well that even through death they could still celebrate life. All knew that one day it could be them being spoken of and remembered, but even against that fear they were content. They knew their loved ones would be cared for, and that was enough.

When the gathering started to break up, Steve made a point of staring at Robin in a way that couldn’t be ignored. When the kid glanced his way involuntarily, he found himself pinned by the soldier’s gaze. A moment later, Steve looked deliberately at the empty spot on the log next to him, then back. Robin got the message, picking his way through the departing men reluctantly. By the time he sat, they weren’t the only two by the fire, but they had a bubble of privacy all the same.

Robin stared into the fire as Steve let the moment stretch out. He shifted in place, the tension rising, but his gaze stayed fixed to the low flames.

“So,” Steve said at last. “Want to explain things to me?”

“I didn’t break orders,” Robin said, the words coming out in a rush, like he’d been rehearsing them. “You didn’t say to stay in camp, and I thought I should stay with Keladry since you weren’t-”

“Robin,” Steve said, disappointment flavouring his words like sour milk in a bakery.

“Other squires my age rode out,” Robin said, mouth a stubborn line as he looked down at his feet. “I’ve almost six and ten years.”

“If any of those squires your age that rode out weren’t handed their first practice sword before they were eight, I’ll eat my shield,” Steve said, stern like the mountains. “You’ve been a squire for barely six months, and you haven’t had their advantages. Don’t judge yourself by their progress.” He made a note to remember the kid’s birthday was coming up.

“Ren has less training than me and you took him into battle!”

“Ren is an adult,” Steve said, “and I recruited Ren as a soldier.” He looked away from Robin, giving him a brief respite as he stared into the fire. “How do I face your parents and tell them that the son they thought was going off to work as a lord’s servant was slain in battle?”

The kid hunched in on himself. “I would have been fine with you.”

“Probably,” Steve said, setting him to gaping. “Probably.”

“Then why are you ma- why didn’t you want me to join you?!”

Steve sighed. “I’m not disappointed because you disobeyed me,” he said. “I’m disappointed because you put yourself in danger when you didn’t need to, and because there was one less person defending our people at the camp than I thought there was..”

If Robin had been downcast before, now he was a study in misery, pale and sick. Still, he found something within that had him looking up to meet his knight-master’s eyes. “I’m sorry, ser. But I did need to.” He swallowed, further words catching in his throat.

“Alright,” Steve said, nodding slowly. “Explain it to me. Take your time to find the words.”

Robin swallowed again, clearing his throat. “I owe you so much,” he began, and Steve held his tongue, “we all do. But you took me from being the third son of a bowyer with few prospects, to the squire of Lord America. You changed my life more than it would’ve been changed if I was a Lord Paramount and became King.” He let out a breath, fortifying himself. “Teaching me to fight, my letters, meeting Lyanna, the treasure - I wouldn’t have made so much coin until I was twice my age - Harrenhal, Braavos, the football in Riverrun-” he was starting to ramble, looking away.

“Slowly,” Steve said, watching him. “Take a breath.”

The young man restrained himself, taking another deliberate breath. “What you’ve done goes both ways. I couldn’t just - I didn’t think I could just sit at camp while you and everyone else was out fighting. I didn’t think about leaving the others here if things went bad in the battle.”

“It’s not just if the battle went poorly,” Steve said. “You heard about what happened with those knights and the Reach servants?”

His colour had been starting to return, but now he paled again. “I didn’t, I didn’t think about that.”

“Been a time or two that I didn’t think either,” Steve said. “The important thing is to remember it, so you can avoid making the same mistake again.”

Robin nodded stiffly, mind obviously elsewhere as he stared into the fire again.

“Hey,” Steve said. “Stop that. Don’t go borrowing trouble with what ifs. What happened, happened. Nothing else.”

“Right,” Robin said, colour returning to his face. “Right.”

“I put people where I did for a reason,” Steve said. “Next battle, you’ll probably be guarding the camp again. Can you accept that?”

“I can,” Robin said. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“Now, there are times when you should disobey orders,” Steve said.

He had almost composed himself, but now Robin spluttered and turned to him. “What?”

“One day you’ll get an order that you know to be wrong,” Steve said. “Hopefully it’s not from me. But when that day comes, it is your duty to look that person in the eye and tell them, ‘No’.”

“But how will I know?”

“It’ll be obvious,” Steve said, looking up at the sky. The stars were just starting to piece through the muted sky, hinting at constellations that he still found himself surprised by sometimes. “It might not be someone telling you to burn down a village, or to stand aside while slavers pass through. Maybe it’ll be someone telling you that there’s no hope, that a rescue attempt can’t be made. You’ll know it when it comes to you.”

Robin nodded slowly. “Yes ser.”

There was a long moment of quiet, half heard conversations and the crackle of the fire the only interruptions. Robin was sitting straighter, like a weight had been removed, but he was still deep in thought.

He could ponder deep thoughts later though. “Hey, what’s this anyway?” Steve asked, reaching over to tweak the lonely few hairs sprouting on the kid’s chin.

Robin squawked, slapping his hand away.

“You’ve got a bit to go before you can impress Lyanna with a beard,” Steve said, nudging him. He had shaved the night before, unwilling to deal with a blood soaked beard, but he had some heavy shadow coming in already.

“She hasn’t noticed yet,” Robin muttered, shielding his chin.

Steve laughed. “Yeah she has.”

“Oh,” Robin said. He brightened. “Do you think-?”

“No,” Steve said. “You should get rid of it first chance you get. I’ll show you how.”

“Oh,” Robin said again, though his brightness didn’t fade, lingering in a small secret grin.

“Now, if you’re hungover in the morning, I’m going to make you regret it,” Steve said, stretching as he got to his feet.

“Wait, what?” Robin asked, blindsided.

“You fought in your first battle today,” Steve said. “You don’t think that’s something worth celebrating?”

“Hang on-”

“And don’t think I didn’t notice Henry and Osric lurking about, waiting for me to finish with you,” Steve said, putting his hands on his hips. “You think I missed the kegs under their arms?”

“Could be anything in there,” Robin protested weakly.

“Uh huh,” Steve said. “Remember, if you’re hungover, it’ll be double sets in the morning. For everyone,” he finished, raising his voice.

Muffled curses came from behind a nearby tent.

Robin was frowning. “Wait, I thought I couldn’t drink until-”

“Moderation Robin,” Steve said. “I don’t mind if you have a drink. Just drink responsibly.”

“Yes Captain,” Robin said, grinning now.

“Think on what I said later,” Steve said. “Now get out of here.”

Robin was up and hurrying off to join some of the others before he had finished speaking, ducking his head as he went. Joyous cries came as he left the fireside behind, the sign of a good night yet to come. And perhaps a horrible morning, but that was in the future.

Shaking his head, Steve turned and left the other way. The men didn’t need their leader bringing the party down, and he had other business to see to.

X

Steve looked out around the crowded tent, full of the cream of Stormlander nobility, most of them roaring drunk. He was wearing his ‘Yes, it was very impressive what I did and I’m just thrilled to be here celebrating it!’ smile, silently wishing he was sitting by a fire with Naerys leaning against him, but it was not to be. Robert had told him, very apologetically, that the celebration of their victory would be no place for a lady, especially one so fine as Naerys, but the joke was on him because Keladry was suffering right there beside him, a goblet of wine in her hand untouched.

The two of them were sat near the centre of the long table that dominated the tent, facing the open flaps, a quiet port of calm amidst the celebration as Steve scratched away at a scrap of parchment and Keladry listened to a knight to her right with an expression of polite interest.

Raucous good cheer filled the room around them as the victorious nobility did their best to empty every keg and wineskin in the camp, starting with those captured from the defeated foe. Three different drinking songs could be heard, each belted out at the top of the singers’ lungs, none even close to in tune. Despite the fullness of the tent, lords seated and standing all around, the party was not confined to its canvas walls, having long since spilled out from it as Lord Baratheon kept inviting this or that man to join them. What had once been a celebration strictly for nobility now seemed to include everyone from Robert himself to the meanest hedge knight that the man had so much as seen swing their sword - and like the wine and ale, generosity was flowing.

“...been any stronger, he would have cleaved him clean in half!” Robert near bellowed, wineskin in one hand, overwhelmed hedge knight in the other. He was standing at the end of the table, chair abandoned. Such was his volume and enthusiasm, he seemed to fill his side of the tent on his own, dwarfing the men gathered around him. “We ought to fix that - I’ll have a sword fit for a lord forged for you on the morrow!”

“That may be difficult without a castle forge, Lord Robert,” Samuel Errol said, voice dry. Like every lord, he had been downing drinks steadily, but unlike most, he still seemed mostly sober.

“Then he can have mine!” Robert declared, undeterred. “Fine steel for a fine knight! Ha!”

Cheers went up around the tent, even from those who had missed the announcement, and the young knight began to stammer his thanks, but he was drowned out. He couldn’t have been far into his twenties, not much older than Keladry.

“I hardly use the thing anyway,” Robert said, dismissing the thanks. “Just kill some more dragonmen with it for me.” He clapped the latest target of his generosity on the back mightily.

The hedge knight seemed delighted to almost be knocked from his feet, and he was soon dragged off into a group of his fellows and paraded from the tent, another goblet of wine pushed into his hands as they went. Robert already had another target, throwing his arm around the shoulder of another drunk lord with a bandage around his head.

Someone fell into the open chair at Steve’s left, slopping ale from their mug on the table, but they paid it no mind. “Lord America,” the redheaded lord said, very particularly, like it was a tongue twister. “I heard that your home has no wars, and I admit I doubted.” He spoke faster now, slurring slightly. “But today I find my mind changing.”

Steve moved the sketch he was working on away from the spilled ale, taking a moment to respond as wars and conflicts crossed his mind’s eye, before he realised what the man was referring to. Funny how gossip spread and changed. “Right. We decide things with fights between champions.” It was so technically true yet completely false at the heart of it that he had to work to keep a grimace from showing.

The lord laughed, clapping him on the back like an old friend and taking a gulp of his drink. “I see why! We had a fine vantage from whi-” he hiccuped “-to watch your banner carve through the Reachers.”

“Everyone did their part,” Steve said. He felt more than saw Kel shift at his side, but she remained quiet.

“And your part was to butcher the foe!” the lord said, laughing like he had told a great joke. “Without Ser Barristan, Aerys only has that Dornishman to try and match you.”

“I’m sure there are many fine warriors who could give me trouble,” Steve said, hiding his thoughts behind polite diplomacy. He took a sip of his wine, though for all its effect it might have been cordial.

The lord laughed again, flecks of ale caught in his moustache. “The Bull is old, and the rest fall short by far. I wager my cousin could take any man of them.”

“Oh?”

“Cousin Jon,” the man answered, all too happy to expand after the slightest sign of interest. “Lord of Griffin’s Roost. I hear tell that you’ve met?”

Steve nodded. The man must be a Connington. “He fought well against Lord Royce, at Harrenhal.”

The red headed man beamed, wiping his mouth after taking another swig. “If we did as your land does, our champions would shee- would schee-” he hiccuped again “-would boot Aerys right up the arse!”

“I’m sure,” Steve said. “Hey, I think I saw someone down there trying to call you over.”

Guilelessly, the Connington turned to see what Steve had nodded at. He apparently saw someone he knew, because his drink was raised in cheerful greeting and he pushed himself up and out of his chair before stumbling away, briefly joining in on a drinking song as he went.

“I do not think I enjoy events like this,” Keladry remarked quietly. Outside, roaring fires set shadows to dancing over the tent walls.

“It’s not for everyone,” Steve said, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

“Yourself included?” Keladry asked.

Steve thought back to smaller parties, quieter gatherings attended by those that could find a moment or a reprieve from their duties to enjoy the fruit of what they fought for. “It’s not my first choice,” he said. “But between a noisy frat party and days of questions over our absence…” he trailed off, holding out his hands as if weighing something against another.

“Your first choice would involve Naerys, I wager,” Keladry said, pretending to take a sip of her wine.

Side-eying the disguised woman, Steve was met with the same smooth expression that she always wore in public. It was only the hint of amusement in her hazel eyes that betrayed her thoughts. “Yep,” he admitted, shameless. “Who would your first choice be?”

Keladry’s composure threatened to falter, but she held strong. “I must remain pure for my lady wife,” she said, looking him dead in the eye.

Steve felt his lip quivering as he suppressed amusement. “That’s very gallant of you. Knightly, some might say.”

Now there came the slightest narrowing of eyes. “Perhaps. Having not earned my spurs, I could not say.”

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Steve said, “and you’ll have earned them three times over.”

“I will call Lord Baratheon over,” Keladry said. “I am sure he means to laud you for your deeds.”

It was Steve’s turn to narrow his eyes. “That’s an empty threat.”

“Is it?” Keladry asked, poker face back in place.

For a long moment, Steve stared his friend down, torn between being pleased that she was comfortable enough to banter with him like this, and wariness that she would go through with her threat. He could glean nothing, her face still like a stone, and he leaned back, twirling his charcoal holder between his fingers as he thought. The party continued on around them, a nearby knight being doused with a keg of ale, but he was undeterred. Then, slowly, he began to smile.

“Go on then,” he said. “Call him.”

“I’m sorry?” Keladry asked. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that.

“Do it,” Steve said, smirking. “I’m sure he has words for the soldier who stopped Tarly from rallying his troops, too.”

With a grudging nod, Keladry conceded defeat, taking another pretend sip of her wine. Steve returned to his sketch, victory settling over his shoulders like a cloak as the party continued to rumble and roar about them.

Men came and went, entering the tent to rub shoulders with the high nobles or leaving to get a breath of fresh air, and amongst them were pages and squires pressed into serving duties. If the kegs and skins they brought were sometimes lighter than they should have been, their knightmasters pretended not to notice, or perhaps were too drunk to do so, and the cheer continued to spread. At one stage there was a wave of newcomers all bearing some manner of wound, apparently freed from the medical tent and received with much acclaim. Steve was just putting the finishing touches on his sketch when the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up, warning him of an imminent ambush. He looked up, but he was too slow.

“Steve!” Robert said - bellowed, really - in the kind of tone that drew all eyes. Not that the Lord Paramount was ever anything but the centre of attention that night, and now he was standing across the table from them.

“Robert,” Steve said, setting his charcoal aside. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Robert chortled, pointing at him. His free hand held a near empty wineskin, red liquid spilling from its mouth, though not a drop was wasted from his own. “Like we belong anywhere else! The man who broke the Reach lines and drove them to the river, and the man who drove Tarly from his perch!”

“And then…” Steve said, gesturing at Robert in general.

The big man laughed again, spreading his arms. “Aye. And then. But this party is for all of us, and you deserve recognition!”

“I was very impressed to hear of the deeds done by my sworn sword,” Steve said, boy scout earnest as he threw Keladry under the bus. “He met the man glaive to sword, was it?”

“I only prevailed due to the training given to me by my lord,” Keladry interjected, seeing all too clearly the enthusiasm that was lit in Robert’s gaze at the thought of another story to tell. “Without it, victory would have come dearly, if at all.”

“Victory always has a price,” Robert said, sobering slightly for a moment. “But with it comes rewards! And I mean to-” he broke off, distracted as he looked down at the table. At the sketch that Steve had been working on for most of the party. “...is that…?”

Steve looked down at the sketch. On a scrap of parchment, leftover from an art lesson he had been giving Lyanna, there was the product of his idle mind. Perhaps six inches tall, it was a lifelike image of a donkey, but with one key difference. Instead of an ass’ head, there was Aerys’ pouting visage, braying impotently, complete with speech bubble. ‘I am a dragon!’ it insisted.

Robert seemed to choke for a moment. “Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh heh hahahahahahah!”

Sharing a glance with Kel, he shrugged at the questioning tilt of her brow. A distraction was a distraction.

What attention wasn’t already on Robert within the tent soon was, as he laughed and laughed, leaning into the table to support himself as he fought to get himself under control. He began to clutch at his sides in pain, howling but unable to stop. “His face!” he gasped.

Those nearby saw that it was something on the table that had spurred his hilarity, and they began to crowd around, seeking to share in whatever it was. A nearby lord reached out, as if to pick the parchment up, but Steve placed a casual hand on the table and the reach smoothly turned into support for a lean. Soon others on both sides of the table were mimicking him, necks craning to see what it was that had set their lord off, and soon the laughter began to spread, gleeful and disbelieving as commentary rose and spread with it.

“Steve, please,” Robert said, verging on tears he was laughing so hard. “I need this.”

“It’s yours,” Steve said, scribbling a quick signature.

“Bri-” he interrupted himself with another choked laugh, “Bryn!”

The boy was nowhere to be seen, but then a small figure ducked in from outside the tent where he had been waiting. “Ser?” the kid asked, barely heard over the laughter and discussion of the insult to the king.

“Take this, put it somewhere safe,” Robert said, picking up the parchment by the corner gingerly to hand it over. “And take yourself off to bed while you’re at it. You’ve served well today.”

“Yes my lord,” Bryn said, accepting the sketch carefully. He bowed, hurrying off and out of the tent.

“I remember well the painting you gifted Ned,” Robert said, turning back to Steve. “But that was something else!”

“Just a bit of fun,” Steve said. Their discussion was the centre of attention in the tent now, a spectacle that would doubtless be spoken of for days.

“A bit of fun he says,” Robert said, finally getting himself fully under control. “I would give my hammer to be able to watch the donkey’s face if he could see it!”

“Why give your hammer away,” someone said with the tone of a quip, “when you could make it happen with that same hammer?”

Robert laughed again, free and easy as was his way. “I could! I will!” He raised his wineskin. “Hurrah for King Donkey!”

“Hurrah!” the tent cheered, out of time and full of cheer to make up for it. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

On the last, each man threw back their skin or mug or goblet and began to chug, and Steve deftly slid his empty goblet to Kel while plucking her own away, throwing the wine back swiftly enough that it hardly touched his tongue. She took the empty goblet in her hand as if it had been nursed to emptiness in it without blinking.

“What a day,” Robert said, “what a lovely day.” He looked about the tent, taking in the moment like he never wanted it to end. “We’ve done great deeds today men, but they are only the beginning. When we’re through, Aerys the Donkey will be off the throne, we’ll be home fat with the spoils of war, and my Lyanna will rule at my side as we watch over a Stormlands that is stronger than any since Durran Godsgrief!”

Raucous bellows were his answer, empty mugs and hands drummed on any bit of wood or maille that could be found.

“Drink and be hearty, men! Tomorrow we march north, and take the fight any that would stand in our way!”

If before it had been lively, now the party was zealous indeed, a new wave of booze carried in by drunken squires as Robert’s words were spread and repeated, new life seizing it.

“Steve,” Robert said, lowly for him but still loud enough to cut through the noise. He leaned across the table, inviting him to do the same with an offered hand.

He did so, rising to lean in, accepting the hand and finding his own clasped tightly in turn.

“I owe you one,” Robert said, looking him in the eye, squeezing firmly. “You and your man both. I’ll not forget it.”

“I know,” Steve said, matching his grip.

Robert grinned, satisfied, and released him, though he had one more thing to say. “You’ve shown your face enough for tonight, but tomorrow morn - council of war, before we march out. Be there.”

Nodding once, Steve stepped back, turning to Keladry, but she was already rising, eager to take the offered exit. The two made their escape, vanishing into the night as the party only grew behind them, another drinking song rising in their wake. There would be many sore heads on the morrow.

X

Sobriety was an envied state in the tent that morning, amongst those deemed worthy of attending the council of war. Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the table that the high nobility and Steve gathered around, slowly sipping at a mug of water as he listened with closed eyes. Bryn stood behind him, ready to refill the mug the moment it was needed.

“...not worth pursuing, given how far the nearest crossing might be,” another lord whose name Steve didn’t know said, concluding his report. “Not to mention most had to abandon their weapons and armour to make it across the river in the first place.” He was pale beneath his dark beard, and visibly trying to avoid the scent wafting from the heavy breakfast of sausage and bacon being eaten by the man next to him.

“Right. My thanks, Buckler,” Robert said. He set his mug down, propping his chin up on his fist, but didn’t open his eyes.

Buckler sank back into his chair with a sigh of relief, only to pale further as his inhale brought with it a full blast of his neighbour’s meal.

Robert forced one eye open, revealing a bloodshot eye that nonetheless roamed along the table. “Who was next?”

The man who was next had fallen asleep sitting upright, for all the faint crease to his brow suggested he was still aware and listening. There was a moment of awkward silence between those who didn’t wish to draw attention to the issue and those who couldn’t, given their own state.

Steve rose instead, setting his half eaten apple on the table. Unlike most of the twenty or so men present, he bore a mien of freshness and clear thought. “Good morning, fe- lords,” he said.

There was a chorus of grumbles that might’ve been a reply.

“I’d like to raise an issue that I noticed after the battle,” he continued, ignoring the way some of the lords grew mulish and others began to pay more attention. “In the aftermath, we had no dedicated squad detailed to get the wounded from the field to the medic tent. We suffered avoidable casualties because we left the transfer to be arranged after the fact.”

Whatever the lords had been expected from him, it wasn’t that. Some blinked, reorientating, and the lord who was steadily working at his greasy breakfast paused with a sausage halfway to his mouth before he rebooted.

“What kind of casualties?” Errol asked, up at Robert’s right. He was slightly wan, but otherwise undamaged by the night’s festivities.

“I saw twelve men die that might have been saved if they had been given aid immediately,” Steve said.

“A dozen isn’t so bad,” a middle aged lord remarked, considering as he scratched a clean shaven cheek.

“A dozen that I saw personally,” Steve said, unable to help the sharpness in his voice as he turned to look at the man. “A dozen experienced soldiers that won’t fight in the next battle. A dozen men who answered the call and marched out to war. A dozen men that won’t return home to their families.”

The lord grimaced and flushed at being called out, opening his mouth to respond.

“You sound like you’ve got an idea,” Robert said, cutting things off before they could grow. He had forced both eyes open now, and was squinting down the table at them.

“A dozen men might not sound like much,” Steve said, giving the lord he had addressed a nod, “but across the field I suspect the full figure to be closer to fifty - and that’s just those that died before they could be helped. The longer the wait, the worse wounds grow, the more resources it takes to attend to them, the longer other wounded have to wait…” he said, gesturing to indicate the vicious cycle.

“Is that our men, or the enemy as well?” a man asked, nursing a goblet of hair of the dog. He had to be a Wylde, sharing looks with Robert’s master-at-arms back at Storm’s End.

“Our men,” Steve said, meeting the challenging gaze easily. He knew any argument to save the lives of the enemy would find no sympathetic ear here. “I judge enemy losses to similar attrition to be two to three times more severe.”

“The idea, Steve,” Robert said, impatient.

“Establish five squads of ten to fifteen men, two horses to a man,” Steve said. “The sole duty of these squads would be to retrieve the grievously wounded from the field and hurry them to medical aid.” He looked about the room, seeing a mix of mild interest and disagreement. “We have a trained doctor and a…decent support staff. We should take steps to maximise their impact.”

“Near fourscore men, and twice that many mounts,” a lord not quite Errol’s age said. “They could be put to better use killing the enemy.”

“There are several thousand men already doing that,” Steve said, keeping his tone even.

“I’d take an extra mounted lance than a handful of corpse carriers any day,” the lord continued, pinched lips twisting in disapproval. “Your man Keladry proved that yesterday, pushing Tarly off.”

There were some mutters of agreement, and it seemed that any who supported the idea would keep their thoughts to themselves.

“Samuel,” Robert said suddenly. “See it done. Ten squads of twelve men, eighteen mounts to a squad. Steve, you’ll give them their orders and run them through their duties, but you won’t command them in the field.” He drained his drink, and held it out to Bryn to refill, the boy already stepping forward.

Steve inclined his head and returned to his seat, pleased. Not all were so pleased, going by the shared looks and poorly hidden expressions, though of course they could not go against their lord.

“Who’s next?” Robert asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There is a matter I would raise, Lord Robert,” a man said, remaining in his seat. Silent until now, he wore a green doublet with a white fawn on each shoulder, and his brown eyes seemed made to narrow in anger, though he wore a reserved expression as he spoke. “About the incident that the Lord America was involved in after the battle.”

Steve’s gaze flicked to the lord, assessing him. They couldn’t go against their lord, but it seemed they could go against him.

Robert pulled a face, not even trying to hide it. “I heard about that. What’s the matter?”

“It is not the incident itself,” the man said, looking around to his fellows, “but what has come of it.”

“Well?” Robert demanded. “What came of it? I thought Samuel dealt with it.”

“Lord Errol did provide a responsible hand,” he said, giving a very slight bow to the older man. “However, word has spread, and I’m sure twisted in the process, and now gossip amongst the men is that you intend to punish every bit of pillaging and misbehaviour.”

“Misbehaviour?” Steve asked, voice mild.

“The blood of the common fighting man runs hot in war,” the lord said, speaking as if explaining a commonly held fact. “At times, they lose control.”

“What was your name?” Steve said. “I didn’t catch it.”

“I am Lord Cafferen,” the man said, tucking a lock of fair brown hair back behind his ear.

“Lord Cafferen,” Steve said, “right. If any man breaks the law, does evil, they’ll suffer the consequences. Losing control-” he thought of trigger words and deeds done without choice, and a frisson of hate rose within him. “No.” He kept his voice steady, but he would not accept that excuse, not when he had seen control, choice, taken away in truth.

“This is war,” Cafferen said, like it was a rebuttal. “Pillaging the foe is what we do.”

“I’m not talking about pillaging.”

A staredown began to brew, but it was interrupted by Robert slapping his hand onto the table, giving out a sharp crack that had half the tent wincing in pain.

“Cafferen,” he near barked, “I’m still half drunk, and my head is killing me. Tell it to me straight.”

“There is an impression amongst the men that they will be punished most severely for taking the spoils of war that is their right,” Cafferen said. “Long have we promised treasure taken by force of arms as part of their compensation.”

“There was only one incident yesterday, and it had nothing to do with loot or treasure,” Steve said, cutting through the dross. “If anyone feels that they need to worry about me, they’re not thinking about looting.”

“Of course,” Cafferen said, smiling, “but as I said, word has twisted. It needs addressing.”

“Then make it clear,” Steve said bluntly. “This isn’t complicated.”

“It is not,” Cafferen said, warming to his subject now as his peers listened to his words. “Though perhaps not for the reasons you suspect. There are certain expectations, certain norms, that are known to exist when an army marches.”

Steve held his tongue, waiting. He better be misunderstanding where the man was going with his topic.

“One of these expectations is that a man is beholden to his own lord, and his lord’s lord,” Cafferen continued. “If an issue arises outside that, it is to be settled between lords, not between man and a lord not his own.”

“So the foreigner should keep his nose out of it,” Steve said, tone flat.

“I would not say it so crassly,” Cafferen said, not disagreeing.

“Uh huh,” Steve said. “What about the rest of these expectations?”

Cafferen shrugged. “Our men serve due to fealty, not mercenary vice. In return they are free to lay claim to loot, treasure, wine-”

“Women?” Steve said.

“...well, it is an unfortunate reality of war,” Cafferen said. “It does play back into my other point, however. In such a case, it would need to be resolved within its particular chain of command.”

“No.”

Cafferen blinked at him, taken aback. “I’m sorry?” He looked about, towards the head of the table, but Robert was watching silently.

“Innocence or guilt will be established, and justice delivered as appropriate,” Steve said, his tone unyielding as iron.

For a moment, Cafferen sought in vain for words. “You see why this might spread disquiet through the ranks,” he said, finding them.

“We would not need to make any announcement,” another lord suggested. “If the concern is that the men will react poorly to increased discipline.”

“And when a man is caught with his prick out?” Connington asked, tugging at his beard. “Putting off the harvest just makes for a larger problem later. You know what the smallfolk can be like.”

“Lord Connington is right,” Cafferen said. “It will happen. What then?” He spoke to the room, but his eyes were on Steve.

“Then they will be punished,” Steve said, ignoring the comment about the smallfolk, as if it wasn’t a knight he had dealt with the day prior. “War breaking out doesn’t change what is right.”

“Soldiers misbehave,” Cafferen said, exasperated, scoffing like it was a minor issue. “When they do, we deal with it - appropriately,” he stressed.

“Appropriately,” Steve said. His gaze was steady on the man, and he was still, too still to be natural. Others noticed.

“It is distasteful, of course, but they often see it as their due in war,” Cafferen said, shifting in his seat. “If we move to deal with it outside of the accepted paths of fealty, we risk harming morale.”

“Morale will be harmed more by the loss of a warrior like Lord America,” Errol said bluntly.

“Lord America does not strike me as the sort to abandon his oaths, given his…enthusiasm to dispense justice,” Cafferen said.

“I’m here because Aerys stole a young girl from her family,” Steve said. “Nothing more.” He leaned in.

“You’ve sworn no oaths of fealty?” Cafferen asked, incredulous. By the looks of some of the others in the council, this was the first that they were hearing of it as well.

“I’ve sworn one oath since I’ve arrived in these lands,” Steve said. “It had a line about the Maiden. You might know it.”

Cafferen hardly seemed to hear his words. “-no oath, yet you are given such favour, this is not-”

Errol coughed, sharply, and gave the man a look when he drew his eye.

Cafferen shut his mouth, nodding stiffly, and took a breath. “My lord. The point remains. The growing perception that Lord America might come down on them for the slightest infraction is something that may have unforeseen effects if not addressed. In war, in rebellion, righteous as it is, it is important - more important - to hold to the paths of fealty as is good and proper.” He fell silent, having said his piece.

Some looked to Steve, but he gave no rebuttal, only watching Cafferen, considering. The man seemed to care more about the fact that Steve was presuming to dispense justice than what his men might get up to.

Errol was whispering in Robert’s ear, but it was over before Steve could think to listen in, and the old lord leaned back, expression revealing nothing.

“Gods,” Robert grumbled, more to himself than the room, before raising his voice to address them. “If a man acts like a cunt, he’ll be treated like a cunt. Cuntery does not include taking a keg of the good stuff to share with your comrades. Cuntery does include carrying away a wench against her will. If she’s all for it, that’s a different kind of-” he cut himself off, gaze twitching to the side that Bryn was waiting at “-well. You get the point.”

Errol coughed, politely.

“Right,” Robert said. “We’re all lords here, and this is war, not court. You’ll all deal with what comes before you, and if there’s a disagreement afterwards, we’ll sort it out then, so make damned sure you know what you’re about. Clear?”

Agreements filtered in, some sourer than others.

“Now if that’s all-”

Robert was interrupted by a commotion outside the tent, raised voices and hurried steps coming closer and closer. There was a clang of metal as something was tossed to the ground, and then the tent flaps were bursting open, a man with sweat streaked hair and a smudged face hurrying through. The sheath on his hip was empty, and he bowed without slowing, coming to a stop a few steps shy of Robert.

“Well?” the muscled lord demanded. “Out with it man.”

Much like a running bomb technician, scouts in a rush were given due consideration, and Steve listened as the man spoke.

“We’ve found the Reach army,” the man said, all in a rush.

“They’ve regrouped?!” Robert demanded, half rising in his seat.

“No, milord,” the scout said. “The main Reach army. At least forty thousand strong. They’re two day’s march away.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Fuck,” Robert said. He rose from his seat in full. “Banners?”

“Tyrell, Tarly, Peake, Hightower-”

“Fuck,” Robert said again. He looked to his lords. “I want us ready to march now. Go.”

The lords rose as one, all lingering weakness and malaise cast aside or ignored.

“Steve, hold,” Robert said.

He was already halfway out of the tent, but he stepped to the side and weaved through the scrum of men hurrying through the flaps. For a bare instant, he caught Cafferen’s eye, saw the first sparks of outrage on his face, but then he was gone, and it was just Steve and Robert in the tent - though no, Bryn was concealed behind Robert’s strong frame.

Robert came to a stop next to him, visibly throttling the sudden need to be active and doing something. “Steve. I need you to make a decision.”

“Take a breath. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m taking my army north. I don’t know how the Reachmen got so many men moving so quickly, but we can’t fight them here,” Robert said, blunt as his hammer. “You can ride with me, or you can ride back to Storm’s End.”

Steve had rarely been accused of being slow. “You want me to defend your home.”

“I want you to ride with me as we do deeds that songs will be written about,” Robert said. “But you told me to put you in the front rank and you broke their line just as you said you would. I could use you in the north. Gods know I’m going to need a warrior like you.” He ground his teeth. “But even if this new army picked up half of Tarly’s, that’s still too many fucking Reachmen on the field. They won’t all be baited into a wild chase. They’re going to Storm’s End.”

“That will be a long siege,” Steve said, not judging.

“A shit of a siege,” Robert agreed, “and if my stubborn shit of a little brother wasn’t there, I’d have concerns.” He glanced back at his squire. “On the other hand, we’ve got a hard march north through lands we don’t know as well as the foe, and a harder fight once we link up with the others.”

“This would be easier if I could see the future,” Steve said, trying to lighten the young man before him.

Robert snorted, but it held only a hint of humour. “It’s a shit of a thing. But I need to know now.”

Steve let out a breath, closing his eyes. He weighed each path against the other; an uncertain march likely hounded by the foe, against a hard siege that could well last the duration of the war. His troops weren’t trained for defensive fighting, but he could make an absolute pest of himself against a besieging army that couldn’t get away from him. On the other hand, he’d be giving up all ability to make a difference in all the other battles yet to come in the north.

He knew what he had to do.

“I’ll march with you,” Steve said, opening his eyes. “You know Stannis has it in him. The fighting in the Riverlands and Crownlands is where I can do the most good.”

A savage grin began to steal across Robert’s face. “They’re not ready for what’s coming,” he said. “Gods, they’re not ready.”

Steve shared his smile briefly, before shifting back to more serious matters. “Are we? An army two days away isn’t that far away.”

“We will be,” Robert said, “or it’ll be my boot up someone’s arse.” He glanced back at his squire. “Bryn, go and have my servants get a move on packing my tent.”

The kid was quick to go, running once he was out the door, freckled face set in determination.

“Good tyke, that one,” Robert said, though he had a strange expression of contemplation on his face. He shook himself. “They are close. Too close. Marching away and hoping for the best won’t cut it.” He tapped a knuckle on the table, slowly. “Something will have to be done.”

“Then let’s do it,” Steve said. “We can decide what it is on the way.”

A snort was his answer, and then the two of them left the tent behind, time and tasks tugging at their attention. The sun was only just rising, shadows of rushing figures playing across the walls, and it was already clear that the day would be a long one.