“Look at them,” Robert said, scoffing. “You’d think this was a tourney ground.” His mount stamped a foot on the stone of the bridge, mirroring the mood of its rider.

Well out of bowshot, the Reach army had come to a stop, arranged in neat blocks under the midmorning sun. A pleasant breeze set the banners they carried to fluttering, even as the last notes of the trumpets that had called for their halt faded. Within their formation, lances of cavalry trotted neatly down the gaps between blocks and into position on the wings and at the rear. They had come from the rear in the first place; the only reason to ride through the formation was to show off their skill.

“Don’t be so harsh on them,” Beron said at Robert’s left, earning a side eye or two from the party. “It’s all they’ll be good for on this field.” Low laughter and snorts answered, a faint smile on his long face.

“Aye, let’s see them ride across that,” Robert said, glancing to the river, bubbling merrily below them. For all the bed was remarkably smooth in patches and shallow, it was still a riverbed, treacherous and just waiting to ruin the footing of those that crossed it in haste.

“I pray that they try,” Cafferen said, one of several lords behind them. “Watching the attempt would be a balm after the last month.”

The group sobered, well aware of the skill and threat of the Reach cavalry, for all they disdained the airs they put on.

“Well, they can prance and trot all they want,” Robert said. His hand gripped tight at the haft of his warhammer, a heavy thing of metal and leather. “They’ll be cut down if they try the river, and smashed if they try the bridge. Eh, Steve?”

“They won’t like how it goes for them,” Steve said, leaning forward in his saddle as he inspected the Reach army. He had been given pride of place at Robert’s right, something that had caused a quiet flutter amongst the lords for one reason or another, but he was past caring.

“That’s if we can bait them into attacking,” Ronald Connington said, from near the rear of the group. Behind him, a small cluster of squires listened to their talk, nerves and excitement splashed across their faces.

“We’ll manage,” Robert said, and that was that.

The Reach cavalry had finished primping and settling, and a group of a dozen odd riders emerged from the main, heading for the bridge. Peake’s banner flew above them, three black castles on orange.

Robert nudged his horse forward, and his retinue followed. A banner was raised behind them by Cafferen’s squire, a rearing black stag on yellow, proclaiming Baratheon’s presence as they rode across the bridge. Hooves clattered on stone, briefly rattling over the wood that branched the missing span, and then they were on the south bank, riding to meet the Reach party.

Last time the Stormland army had faced off with the Reach, Steve had watched the parlay from the front ranks, well removed from the discussion. This time he found himself with a front row seat, but he had little mind to enjoy the new experience. Not with more pressing matters on hand. It did not take them long to draw near to the other party, and they began to slow. They were close enough to make out their faces clearly.

Steve turned to glance back at his squire, riding with his fellows, and tilted his head in question. Robin nodded once, face set in harsh lines, a far cry from his usual friendly expression. His knuckles were white on his reins, and his eyes were fixed on the leader of the Reach party. The super soldier turned back just as they came to a stop, thoughts hidden behind a calm expression.

For a moment, no one spoke, each group taking in the other. There were more Stormlanders, but only due to their squires, and the armour of the Reachmen was polished brighter.

“Lord Peake,” Robert said, patience quickly running thin.

“Lord Baratheon,” Peake said, smiling thinly. He had a sharp face, and sharper eyes that took in the group before him, faint lines about their corners. A narrow chin was bare of even the hint of stubble, and short dark hair was neatly combed, no helm on hand to muss it. He lacked the bulk that many Westerosi lords seemed to share, but there was a strength to him, his plate armour worn easily.

“Took you long enough,” Robert said, blue eyes looking him over. “You stop for a picnic?”

Peake ignored the goading words. “Say your piece.”

Both sides shifted and scowled, neither happy with the lack of respect from the other. Steve was the exception, watching the enemy general without blinking.

Robert spat to the side, his opinion clear. “Right then. I warned you what would happen if you kept pushing, and you have, so now it’s my boot up your arse. We can do this here and now, or you can send your men at me to die first.”

An unimpressed brow was raised in response. “Why would I give battle when I can simply watch you starve?” Peake asked. “You are not the one fighting in the heart of your homeland, surrounded by fertile fields and men eager to supply you with their bounty.”

“Not sure what else I expected from a Reachman,” Robert said, lip curling in contempt.

“Just like a Stormlander to think so simply,” Peake said. “What will you do when I refuse to send my men single file over that bridge for you? Scream and cry, demanding single combat?”

Robert’s face reddened in anger, a rumble of anger growing in his chest.

“Or perhaps you will send your pet sellsword after me,” Peake said, smiling, like he’d told a quiet joke. “It seems that you owe him mo-”

“I’ve had bowel movements with more fibre than you.”

There was a moment of shocked silence as all present looked to the ‘pet sellsword’ that had dared to interrupt the parlay.

“Your Lord Paramount was bolder, but I suppose that’s a given when you can’t even grow facial hair,” Steve continued, warming to his subject. “Tell me, have you even drawn your weapon this past month, or do you prefer to lead from the rear?”

Disbelieving grins, poorly hidden, began to grow over the faces of the Stormlanders, while the Reachmen grew outraged. Peake’s face was a study in stone.

“What about when you’re not on campaign? Do you get someone else to do the work in the bedroom, too? ” Steve asked. There was a kernel within himself, one he didn’t like to feed, that always tempted him to treat bullies as they treated others. Bucky had always loved it when he let it out. “What do his kids look like?” Steve asked, addressing the other Reachmen.

“You yap in the presence of your betters,” Peake said, even voice betrayed by the whiteness of his lips. “Your base insults will not see me charge into battle like a rabid Stormlord.”

“That’s a good excuse,” Steve said, sounding impressed. “Now when you refuse to respond to my insults, you can just say you’re being smart, not cowardly.”

Peake paled with fury, turning deliberately to Robert. “Have you anything worth hearing to say?” he asked.

“Bitch,” Steve said softly, hardly moving his lips.

Robert gave a pained wheeze, struggling mightily to keep a straight face. He shook his head, lips pressed together for fear of losing control.

“Hey, how come you’ve got three castles on your banner?” Steve asked. “Are you compensating for something, or do you just have trouble counting?”

A snigger came from someone behind him, and that was the last straw. Robert lost control, breaking into huge, heaving guffaws, slapping his knee, and the rest of the Stormlanders followed him.

Peake whirled his horse around, bulling his way through his party without a word and forcing them to turn after him, following him back towards their army with hooting Stormlords at their backs.

Weakly, Robert gave a wave, gesturing for his lords to turn and make for the river, but there was little order to their party as they did so. As they rode, the air about them seemed more suited for a pub crawl than a party out to parlay.

“You said you would aim to goad him, America,” Silveraxe said, still chortling, “but I was not expecting that!”

“‘Bitch’,” Robert said to himself, almost giggling.

“I just wanted to make sure he understood where I was coming from,” Steve said, shrugging. “We do insults a little differently back home.”

“That tale will spread through their army like a pox,” Beron said, shaking his head as he smiled. “What did he do to deserve such vitriol?”

Steve frowned. “He’s done things that I find very hard to forgive. I don’t like- well, it’s not my story to share, but he’s on my shitlist.”

The mood fell somewhat, laughter fading as they neared the bridge.

“A dangerous place to be,” Beron remarked. By the nods in response, he was not the only one thinking it.

“If all goes well, you’ll have the chance to take your pound of flesh,” Robert said, voice raised to be heard. “So long as Peake doesn’t act like a bitch.”

His words buoyed the mood somewhat, and then conversation was cut off by the clatter of hooves on stone as they reached the bridge. When they reached the other side, the group paused, as Robert began to give orders.

Steve directed Fury over towards his squire. “You all right?” he asked quietly.

Robin nodded, his expression torn between smile and frown. “What you said - his face - but then I remember,” he said.

“It’s beyond my power to make him face true justice for what he did,” Steve said, “but I can certainly make him pay the price for his actions.”

There was no humour in the smile Robin mustered. “I think I prefer that,” he said, teeth bared. “Make him hurt.”

“Steve,” Robert cut in, putting an end to their talk. “You’ve seen him now, and his approach. Your thoughts?”

They had brainstormed a number of approaches to goad the enemy into attacking, most dependent on circumstance. The foe was well out of bowshot, arrayed across the full stretch of the fords, and their camp was nowhere to be seen. Some approaches were riskier than others, and some were bloodier or more insulting, but now that he had the lay of the land, they could make an informed decision.

“I think…he didn’t appreciate what I had to say to him,” Steve said. “How do you think he’d react to a bit more of that?”

Robert gave him a look. He knew exactly which suggestion Steve was alluding to, and it couldn’t be described as ‘a bit more’. “You think you can get them all following along?”

Steve had snuck into a few games in his time, and been given the royal treatment at a few more on Tony’s dime. If there was anything a crowd liked, it was a good chant. “Yeah. I’ll manage.”

“Right. We’ll try that first then,” Robert said. “We’ve got supplies to spare yet.”

“Yes sir,” Steve said, before turning back to Robin. “Pass the word to Keladry, and then join Walt. I don’t expect they’ll charge today, but best be ready.”

“Aye Captain,” Robin said, ducking his head. He spurred his horse over to where Keladry stood at the head of a score of knights, waiting near the end of the bridge.

Steve nudged Fury over towards the centre of the army. Rather than being at the middle of the fords, the bridge was perhaps a third of the way from their start, and he wanted to ensure his little ditty spread quickly.

X

The Reach army was perhaps half again outside the range of the Stormland longbows, but they were not out of earshot. Not when thousands upon thousands of men were speaking as one, making themselves heard over the river and the grassy fields. It had started with one voice, but it had spread swiftly, more and more common men lending their voices as they heard the lyrics and joined in with wide grins.

“Luke Peake, Luke Peake

He’s meeker than a sheep

Luke Peake, Luke Peake

His armour must be cheap

Luke Peake, Luke Peake

Born on midden heap

Luke Peake, Luke Peake

Listen to him weep!”

Their foe was distant, but not so distant that the impact of their words could not be seen. Those with keener eyes could see the disbelief in them, the rising outrage, even the amusement of some. Messages were run to the command on their right wing, but when they carried their response back to those that sent them, no action was forthcoming.

The men sang with a gusto, tickled pink to insult an enemy noble so. In time however, the first hints of fatigue crept in, and Steve signalled for a horn to be blown, bringing the chant to an end before it could peter out. There was much clashing of steel and hooting in response, morale greatly lifted. It was early afternoon.

Standing in formation for hours on end with the threat of battle looming over the field was not an easy task, but Steve did his best to bolster the men. As the sun began to fall towards the horizon, a new chant spread through the Stormlands army.

“Whose gut is yellow like daffodil?

Peake, Peake, Peake!

Who lays with pigs till he's had his fill?

Peake, Peake, Peake!

He's a gutless coward, yes it's true.

Peake, Peake, Peake!

And now it seems the Reach is too!

Weak, Weak, Weak!”

On and off they raised the new chant, carrying through until the sun turned orange and began to set in truth. A contagious glee had beset the army, mirrored by a not quite despondent mood amongst the Reachmen as each army retired for the day. Steve heard more than one earnest discussion amongst the soldiers over Peake’s fondness for sexual relations with goats, or of the likely equine parentage of his children, and how best to set such ideas to a tune, but that was none of his business. The first day of the standoff was almost over, but there were more to come, and they wouldn’t goad their foe into attacking with more of the same.

When the moon began to rise, shining down on men sitting around fires as they ate and japed with a strong watch set, Steve was checking his gear and passing word to the watch commanders. The first day might have been over, but the first night was just beginning.

When Lord America crept from the Stormlands camp, clad not in heavy plate likely to glint in the moonlight but in a strange blue outfit, even their own sentries hardly spied him. When he disappeared into the darkness across the river, those same sentries could not help but feel a glimmer of pity for the Reachmen.

Slow hours passed, and the moon sat high overhead, half hidden by clouds.. The third shift of four was about to start when the serenity of the night was broken by a distant horn call, mournful and sinister. Though it was heard only faintly at the Stormlands camp, it was surely a sudden, startling thing at the far off Reach camp. The Stormlanders had come to know the distinctive horn of Lord America well, and now it seemed the Reachmen were too, as scant minutes later the horn rang out again, sounding its dirge into the night. This time though, it came to the sentries ever so slightly differently, echoing over the land from another angle.

Shift change came, but rather than hurrying to their beds, the men of the second shift lingered to speak with their replacements, wondering what the formidable warrior could be up to. They had been warned that Lord America was up to something, but not what, and the horn sounding and sounding again gave little hint. It wasn’t until the third, then fourth, and then fifth sounding, all reaching them differently, that some began to realise.

“Imagine trying to get a wink with that going off all around the camp,” one man said to another.

“You’d never,” the man replied, scoffing.

“They’ve got to be riding out to hunt him down.”

“What are they gonna do? It’s Lord America. He prolly kills them that find him, then goes off to do it again.”

Again the horn sounded, and the relieved sentry shook his head, a vindictive smirk on his face as he made for his tent. Lord Baratheon was truly a lord of lords, getting a man like that America on their side.

X

In the quietness of his large tent, Steve and Naerys sat across the table from each other, legs entwined as they enjoyed a simple breakfast in the central room. The sounds of the waking camp rose outside, and the rising sun played on the walls. He had crept back in during the early hours of the morning to return to sleep, and had woken rested. The same couldn’t be said for the soldiers he had spent his night disturbing.

“I think it’s been a year,” Naerys said, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” Steve asked, not looking up from the sketch he was working at, finishing off a cheese drizzled bread with his free hand.

“A year since you washed ashore at Sharp Point,” Naerys said.

Now he looked up, charcoal stylus pausing. “Huh.” His gaze went distant as he flicked through memories. Waking up in a strange land, the Kingswood Brotherhood, getting his shield back, the tourney at Harrenhal, Braavos and the Iron Bank, the weddings at Riverrun, the rescue raid in the Mountains of the Moon, spiriting the hostages out from the Red Keep, building his company, taking Gulltown, the voyage south, months on campaign in the Reach - it had all sped by so quickly. “It feels shorter,” he said, looking back to her. “But, longer, in some ways.”

For a long moment, Naerys didn’t answer, only circling one finger on the table they sat at. “Living in Sharp Point feels a blur. I remember names, faces, but…I’ve lived more since I met you than I did in all the years since my father died.”

Steve set his stylus down and placed his hand over Naerys’. She rarely spoke of her father, and almost never about his death, only of his exploits or things he had taught her.

“No matter what happens,” she said, flipping her hand over to take his, “I am glad I found you.”

“Pretty sure I found you,” Steve said, squeezing her hand.

“Remind me which of us washed up on a foreign shore?” she asked pointedly.

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding, “and if I’d never done that, I never would have found you.”

“Impossible man,” Naerys said, but her voice was fond.

“I’m glad I found you too,” Steve said, more serious. “After the way my life went, I didn’t think I’d ever…I didn’t expect to ever have anything like this.”

“Well you do,” Naerys said, tapping his foot with her own. “And you’ll keep it, so long as you come back in one piece today, and every day to come.”

“They don’t have enough soldiers to stop me.”

Something about the way he said it had her eyes darkening with desire, and she leaned forward, about two seconds from climbing over the table to get at him. Then there were footsteps from outside, and the sound of the tent flap entrancing being pulled aside.

Lyanna entered a moment later, carrying with her parchment and charcoal, sketching materials that had come to be hers. “Morning Steve, Naerys,” the girl said, smiling as she saw them sitting across from each other, each absorbed in their own business. “Robin said you wanted to see me?”

“That’s right,” Steve said, cursing his earlier decision as he set his stylus down again, as if he hadn’t just snatched it up in a hurry. “Have a look at this.” He slid the sketch he had been working on over towards her.

She approached the table eagerly, setting her equipment down. “Is this another practi…” she trailed off as she took in the sketch, jaw going slack. After a long moment, scandalised delight began to creep across her face. “Is that Pea- with a donkey?!”

The bride cloak that Peake was menacing the donkey with was his favourite part of it. “Yep.” He slid another scrap of parchment over to her.

Eyes already alight with glee, she took up the new sketch. On it was a line of men, all in line for the privy. Most were dressed casually, save one, who clutched at a sword and wore full plate armour that just happened to resemble the set Peake had worn during the parlay. A vicious smirk appeared. “Has Robin seen these yet? Let me show him, please,” she almost begged.

“You can show him,” Steve said, lips twitching. He shared a look with Naerys; she too had found joy in Lyanna’s amusement. “Do you think you could do some more like this?”

It took a moment for the question to sink in, but when it did Lyanna almost began to dance in place. “You want me to - oh yes, I can,” she said, nodding quickly, but then she glanced between the two sketches, nibbling on her lip as she thought. “Not as good, and the perspective on the second one isn’t easy - what are they for?” Her words were almost falling over themselves in her eagerness.

“I’m going to leave them around the Reach camp when I steal Peake’s banner later tonight,” Steve said.

Naerys’ head snapped back to him at that. “Steve.”

“What?” Steve asked. “It’s me.”

That didn’t help matters.

“I’m not even going to be sneaking into his tent,” Steve said. “I’m stealing a flag from his baggage, not assassinating a general.”

“Hmm,” Naerys said, only partially satisfied.

Steve would take it, and he looked back to Lyanna to see her on the verge of doing tippy taps.

“You’re going to leave these for the nobles to find?” Lyanna asked.

“That’s the plan,” Steve said.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “I can do a bunch before nightfall. I bet Robin has some ideas too.”

“Appreciate it,” Steve said. “I’ll do some more this afternoon, once I finish poking the Reach knights.” A thought occurred to him. “Oh, don’t forget to sign the ones you do.” He took up his stylus again and scribbled a quick ‘America’ in the corner of each sketch.

Some of her enthusiasm calmed. “Should I just sign it as Lyanna? I don’t have a family name, um, yet.” A blush stole across her face.

“You should choose one,” Naerys said firmly.

“Even though I’m just-”

“Just what?” Naerys asked, levelling her gaze at her.

Lyanna ducked her head, but she was smiling.

“You’re more than a few years away from getting a family name that way, anyway,” Steve said. “I don’t need to sit down with you again, do I?”

Panic flashed in her eyes now. “No Steve there’s no need for that,” she said quickly.

Naerys pretended to scratch the bridge of her nose, hiding a smile.

“Then have a think, and if you come up with one before tonight, sign it to your work,” he said. “If not, just use your first name.”

“I will,” Lyanna said. She glanced at her supplies, hand twitching towards her stylus. “May I…?”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Steve said, rising from his chair. “I’ve gotta go spank some knights.”

Naerys tilted her head, expectant, and he stepped around the table to give her a quick kiss. It stayed quick due to their company, and then he was on his way with a bounce to his step, ready to face the new day.