Excitement fluttered around the circle, and the hammer was swiftly retrieved, the audience falling quiet, those behind silently jostling for a better angle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get ‘im Kel!” Toby hooted from the sidelines. “Hit him again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robin was quick to nod his agreement

New movement caught Steve’s eye, a group of men stepping forward. “Oh?” he asked. “Volunteers?”

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

“That so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t stop?” Steve asked, tilting his head as if confused.

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

Steve paused, fingers resting on her ankle in unspoken threat. “Or you’ll…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good! Good,” Naerys said, like she hadn’t been sure of his answer.

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

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

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

“Milord America?”

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

Steve centred himself as Naerys’ hand fell away. “Yes?” he asked, voice terse.

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

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

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

“...I understand,” Steve said. “Thank you for the message.”

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

“Shit,” Steve said shortly. “Tomorrow? No-”

“Robin’s birthday,” Naerys said, just as disgruntled.

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

“Shit,” Naerys agreed.

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

“I could seize a castle,” Steve offered. “We’re bound to pass one.”

“Aren’t we making right for the other rebel armies?” Naerys asked. “Avoiding sieges?”

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

Naerys let out a long sigh. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait.”

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

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

“A little,” Steve agreed, tilting his head up.

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

Robert waved him off. “No. Even if you were, I’d be happy for the rescue.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bullshit,” Robert said, but then he saw the expression on Steve’s face. “...what happened?”

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

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

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

“Oh a pox on that,” Robert said.

“Lord Rob-”

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

Samuel bowed his head. “As you say, my lord.”

“You had something you wanted to ask,” Steve said.

“Aye. You’ve seen the river,” Robert said, refocusing himself. “You’ve seen the bridge. Could you hold it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samuel returned it. “Just so.”

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

“So, the bridge,” Steve said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, my lord.”

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

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

“Not the first time he’s done it,” Robert said. “Did I tell you about the time…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days later, Steve waited on Mastford Bridge, watching as some twenty thousand men approached the Stormland position on the northern side. By the time he could make out their faces, their footsteps could be felt rumbling through the stone. Battle was in the offing - now they just had to make sure it was accepted.