It was a strange feeling, to stand on the bridge in the centre of battle with nothing to do as the fighting continued to either side of them. The Reachmen were lucky that the riverbed was mostly stone, even if there were treacherous footholes here and there, but the men of the Stormlands still had the advantage on the riverbank. It was a less brutal fight than that at Blueburn, blocks of men probing at spear length rather than crushing against one another, but it was still a battle, and the river still stained red. Arrows soared steadily overhead, killing few, but adding to the misery of the fight.

Steve was leaning against the bridge parapet, and on the verge of sending a runner for a table and snacks, to taunt the foe if nothing else, when movement from the enemy caught his attention. It wasn’t another block of men approaching, or some contraption, but a line of men, perhaps a dozen strong by the length. They were advancing steadily towards the bridge as one, but it was what they carried that caught his attention.

Each man hefted a pair of round shields, though not in the way one would expect. Wooden frames had been constructed, and the shields attached to them, one above another, resulting in a barrier not quite the height of a man. They walked as one, doing their best to keep their makeshift barrier together, but they could not help but let gaps form here and there, and through these Steve glimpsed the truth of their ploy.

“Pavise shields,” Steve said, more to himself.

“‘Pavise’?” a knight at his shoulder asked. “Is that a word from your homeland?”

“Yeah, it’s-” he shook his head. Details were less important at that moment. “We’ve got crossbowmen coming.”

There was a faint stir from those that heard his words. “Do they think we will stand here and let them shoot at us?” someone asked, amusement and indignation in his tone.

“No, look, behind their archers,” the other, the one to his left, said.

The foe’s archers had been positioned in front of their infantry, at the edge of the Stormland range but with the river in their reach. Behind them, though, horses could be glimpsed. Without riders, and difficult to spot given the difference in elevation from bridge to beyond the bank, but they were there, and their riders were surely with them unseen.

“They think to turn us into pincushions, and then run us down, or to force us off the bridge, and ride through the opening,” the man opined.

“I think you’re onto something,” Steve said.

“More fool them, if they think we’ll be forced off by that,” a knight still waiting his turn to join Steve at the front said. “Unless they have Myrish crossbows,” he appended.

Steve glanced back at them, giving their armour a closer look. For all that they all wore plate and were knights all, there was still a range of quality to be seen. Some wore steel gorgets, others mail, while some only only had an aventail. He was also conscious of the fact that none of their armour was as thick or well made as his own.

The line of makeshift pavise shields was nearing, and the second row of men behind the shield bearers was becoming more obvious, but Steve would bet they meant to come right to the end of the bridge before they stopped to fire. For what seemed to be a newly invented tactic, for Westeros at least, it had promise.

Pity he would have to go about ruining that promise.

“Be right back,” Steve said, as the foe came to a stop just past the end of the bridge.

“Er, what?” “Ser-”

He was already on his way though, leaving his hammer on his back as he strode forwards. The pavise wall had shifted as it stopped, the three on each end angling themselves to provide protection from the sides, and as busy as they were ensuring they were all in place and ignoring the odd arrow that came their way, it took them a moment to notice his advance.

It was a gnarly old soldier with missing front teeth who noticed first. Steve knew this due to the way he gaped when he saw him, but the man was quick to hiss a warning to his fellows. Activity behind the shields picked up.

Steve was nearing the end of the bridge when he saw crossbow stirrups poking through the edges of the pavises, near where the rounded edges of the shields met. A moment later, there was the snap of strings. Every last quarrel shot towards him, too fast for the average man to react to.

His shield was waiting for them, and most bounced off harmlessly, soft plinks quieter than those that bullets made. Some hit the steel cap that had replaced what was lost, louder, and more jarring. One hit his right arm, but barely left a scratch, hitting right in the middle of the abnormally thick section on the back. He counted the impacts, nodded to himself, and lowered his shield.

The shield came right back up, catching a pair of quarrels that would have hit him right in the face. Well, if that was the way they wanted to play it…Steve went from a steady stride to a sprint, and a heartbeat later he was bursting through the line of shields, splinters flying in his wake.

There were two dozen men there, most staring at him in shock and horror. Those with crossbows had barely begun to reload them, most crouching to get a hook hanging from their belts behind the string, and one of them was attaching some kind of winding mechanism to his, while the rest were bracing the makeshift pavises, or tumbling across the ground in the wake of his sudden arrival. All this he took in at a glance, and then he was moving.

Bones were shattered and bodies were broken as Steve laid about with shield and fist, heading left down the line. One man latched on to him, thinking to lock his arm in place for the next man to take advantage of, but Steve just headbutted the next man into the dirt, and then the man on his arm found himself airborne, crashing into those trying to take advantage of Steve’s turned back.

When Steve finished with his first victims, he turned back for the others. The shieldbearers had dropped them, choosing to risk that the Stormland archers wouldn’t fire with one of their own amongst them, only to have their charge fouled by their flying comrade. They now found themselves subject to Steve’s undivided attention, while behind them the crossbowmen worked frantically to reload.

Steve punched a man in the jaw, breaking it, and then carried through to elbow the man to his right in the face. An unlooking boot snapped a man’s leg, while he grabbed another man by the arm to wield him as a flail, sending two more flying. He threw the unlucky foe into a crossbowman who had just finished setting a bolt in place, and then there were only four left.

He judged the distance; they were barely a lunge away, but their crossbows were already coming up to point at him, and he crouched, curling up behind his shield. There were three plinks on his shield, then a long pause, before finally the fourth hit. He rose, lowering his shield.

It was his reflexes that saved him. Two bolts were flying for his face, again, but he twitched aside with a speed that no normal man could match. One bolt sailed over his shoulder, while the other hit his plate gorget and skittered away. He saw how they had tricked him; one man had taken up the loaded crossbow of the man he had thrown someone at, giving him a false sense of security for the last to take advantage of.

The man who had almost shot him in the face, twice, lowered his crossbow with an almost resigned fear. It was the man with the wind up crossbow - windlass, Steve thought it was called - an older man with a jagged scar across his brow. Steve stepped forward, and the other three turned and fled, but the hoary soldier only dropped his weapon and drew a rondel knife, advancing to meet him.

Steve caught his arm as he went for his face, and put his leg in the way of the knee to his groin. With a twist of his wrist he snapped the man’s arm cleanly, but he only let out a pained hiss, trying to drop the knife into his other hand and strike at his armpit. A headbutt saw him stumbling back, dazed, and his nose broken.

“Settle down there son,” Steve said. “I think you’ve done enough.”

The man swore at him, but it was muffled by the hand he held to his nose, now streaming with blood.

A quick look to his surroundings told him he was safe for the moment, as those enemies closest seemed preoccupied with their injuries or running away, and the force that seemed to have been waiting to take advantage of an opening was shying back from their charge now that it had failed to appear.

A scrape of movement drew his gaze back; the man at his feet was trying to draw another knife from his boot. Steve waited for him to draw it before kicking it away, shaking his head.

“Just don’t,” he told the man. He was about to give him some incredibly hypocritical advice when the man’s crossbow caught his eye.

Steve saw now why he had been startled by a pair of quarrels both times. It was no simple crossbow like he had been seeing ever since his first little brawl back at Sharp Point, but something a little fancier, with two bow lathes instead of one, and a more familiar form of trigger. There were even groupings of three castles decorating its stock, burnt into the wood.

“You know, I think I’ll take this,” Steve said to his defeated foe, leaning down to pick it and the winding mechanism up.

“Cock,” the man managed. “What’d he do to you?”

The super soldier glanced away from his loot to the defeated man, cold disdain replacing battle-cheer. “I don’t like rapists.” A man like Peake wasn’t one that would abuse a single person under their power and no others. He would have multiple victims, and no way of finding out where Steve had heard of his crimes. “Your lord might be beyond the authorities of this land, but he’s not beyond me. You tell him that.”

The Peake man was incensed. “You trust some weeping gash-”

Steve kicked him in the jaw, leaving him insensate. He hummed to himself as he gathered up a few quivers of bolts, taking them from the injured and groaning men around him, even as they began to drag themselves away from the river. Some were utterly still, not the stillness of death, but the stillness of an animal in the presence of a much larger predator, and he ignored these, not wanting to cause them undue stress. He began to make his way back to his unit, frowning. The brawl had stoked his spirits briefly, taking his mind off the earlier slaughter, but the scarred man’s words had brought him down again, and the sight of the ongoing battle in the river only dampened them further. He set his jaw.

The sooner this war ended, the better.

X

The bridge was not assaulted again that day. The men straining in the river were called back, replaced by fresh troops in an attempt to overcome the weary Stormlanders, but it was a simple thing for Robert to command the same, and the stalemate continued. Steve got to see the squad of stretcher bearers he had championed put to good use, ferrying men wounded on the riverbanks back to camp, but as the sun began to set, the Reachmen pulled back once more.

As the army pulled back, however, there was one last group that rode forward. Not soldiers, but camp followers, and they came with wagons as they made for the rows of corpses by the bridge.

At Steve’s word, none interfered with them. He knew that word would spread amongst the foe of the toll that had been reaped from those that tried the bridge, and he knew that they would replace the warning come the next day in any case. He took note, however, that amongst those that had been sent to collect the bodies were the women that he had returned to the Reach when he had parlayed with Mace Tyrell, and he frowned. Whether it was a message or a method of ensuring he would not interfere he did not know, but either way it said something, and he felt his dislike of Peake renewed, plans churning over in his head.

That night, the Stormland camp celebrated. They had seen their foes off, and put another nail in the coffin of Lord Peake’s manhood. Amongst Steve’s company, Ren regaled the men with what she had witnessed of their leaders, telling enraptured listeners of their martial might, no matter how much either of them tried to get her to focus on the other. Lyanna was likewise enamoured with the crossbow that Steve gifted her, and when Robin had offered, far too casually, to give her lessons on how to use it, Steve found himself sharing a smile with Naerys, tucked under his arm. A ration of wine had the night ending in good cheer, all retiring in good time. The battle would come again the next day, and they were ready for it.

Not all dangers on campaign came from the enemy, however.

X x X

The Reach attacked early, the second day of battle, but the Stormland scouts were well alert, and warning was carried back in time. The sun had only just risen above the horizon in full as the assault on the bridge broke and fled, men unwilling to continue in the face of the butchery they faced. Steve set his men to clearing the corpses as he saw to an injury of a hedge knight, the man’s arm broken while fighting at his side. Below them, the battle continued on, though it seemed a slower thing today, the Reachmen less motivated to push hard up the bank, more content to trade where they stood.

“You won’t be fighting again today,” Steve told the man as he tested the arm, gauntlet and vambrace on the parapet beside them. “Or for the next month, by the feel of this.”

“I could splint it, and strap a shield to it,” the man said hopefully.

Steve snorted, shaking his head. “You’ve got the spirit, but you’ve done your part here. Be proud. You could probably help out in the medic tent if you’re looking for a way to contribute.”

The knight sighed, eyes downcast through the grill of his helm. “I suppose…”

“Hey, pay attention to the doctor and you might pick up something useful,” Steve said, tapping him lightly on his uninjured side’s shoulder. “And before you let yourself get too low, remember that you’ve earned your keg of wine, and a horse or suit of armour besides.”

“I did, didn’t I,” the knight said, pleased, his youth shining through.

“That’s the spirit,” Steve said. “Now don’t forget your gear before you head over to the stretcher bearers.”

The men returned from body disposal as he did so, the man who had fought at Steve’s other shoulder helping him on his way, and they settled in to wait for the next assault, if one ever came, or perhaps some other bit of cleverness. They would be waiting for a time, however, as the sun continued to rise with no sign of attention from the enemy save for the odd volley of arrows to keep them on their toes, and a dreadful boredom began to set in.

It was midmorning when that changed.

“Steve!” came the distant holler, coming from behind but growing closer. “Steve! Steve!”

Steve turned, something in his gut unpleasantly hot at the tone, and saw his squire. Robin was riding hard, heading right for the bridge, standing up in his saddle and waving as he shouted. Visions of enemy forces finding another crossing plagued his mind, and he hopped up onto the parapet to run along it, meeting Robin at the end of the bridge, the kid breathing heavily and his horse heaving.

“Take a breath,” Steve ordered. “What is it?”

“Naerys - Naerys is in danger,” Robin said, hands trembling with nerves and worry. “Cafferen’s squire came to me with a message, said to pass it to you, he said one of his men had overheard a knight plotting to attack her today.”

Steve’s blood froze, colder than the ice he had come from. For a moment he considered it a lie, a way to draw him from the bridge to shame him or to aid the enemy, but he dismissed it. Even if it was, he would not risk it being true and doing nothing.

“Ren,” he said, voice made distant by the thud of his heartbeat in his ears, “keep my banner raised. Keladry, you’ve got point. Take command.”

Keladry nodded, unquestioning, and closed her visor, already moving to the head of the column, glaive at the ready. After a moment of hesitation, Thomas followed her.

“What? Ser-”

“Take the lad’s horse at least-”

“You can’t just-”

The reactions from the knights nearby were ignored in favour of removing his hammer from its harness, setting it down, spike driven into the dirt. Then he was gone, dust rising in his trail and knights gaping at the speed with which he disappeared.

They were not the only ones to be astonished by Lord America’s sudden flight, and not only for the spectacle of a man in strong plate sprinting at what seemed a pace to shame a destrier, but that was surely their eyes betraying them. Those in position to see, nearby common soldiers and lords on a hill alike, had seen the rider approach beforehand, and they wondered. Some spoke disparagingly, some worried over the bridge defence, and some kept their thoughts to themselves, but all noticed his speed, even if they convinced themselves otherwise.

X

Steve reached the camp swiftly, startling the camp followers that were doing laundry by its edge. He looked them over in an instant, searching for his own people, but there were none to be seen. He hurried into the camp proper, slowly only enough that he could take the corners and bends without careening through a tent.

The lanes were quiet. Every fighting man was at the battle, preparing to join it, or standing watch over it beyond its borders. There were camp followers about, carrying out errands here and there, but they were spread throughout it, not occupying it in the same way it was when full. Steve saw lanes and roads without a soul to be seen, and couldn’t help but picture someone with evil intent ambushing Naerys in one and dragging her out of sight, or worse, killing her outright.

He reached the section that his company had claimed, stopping in the sparring circle at its centre. “Naerys!?” he shouted. He listened, but there was no response, not even a stirring from within a tent. He stormed over to their tent, sticking his head inside, but there was still no sign of her, and he did not linger. If she was not there, she would be helping the medics.

His pulse continued to rise as he ran, heart hammering in a way that simple exercise could never achieve. If this was some plot, a lie, he would throttle the one responsible within an inch of their lives, he swore- a woman screamed, pain and terror mixed in together, off to the right, and he turned without a thought. He was going to hurt someone very badly. The clash of steel on steel rang out, and he ran faster.

When he arrived, it was already over.

Naerys lay on the ground, covered by a man in a gambeson, both of them still, and his heart stopped. But then she stirred, trying to lift the corpse off, and he breathed again. He was by her side without thought, throwing the body clear, and she met his eyes as she looked up, gasping.

“Steve.”

“Naerys.” For a long moment, he couldn’t look away, but then he noticed the blood, wet on her cuirass and soaking into her shirt, and his heart stopped again.

“It’s not mine,” Naerys said, words almost tripping over themselves in her haste. “I’m fine, I’m unhurt. Steve.” She reached up, putting her hand on the exposed portion of his cheek and pressing tight, showing that she was alive. “I’m here. I’m unhurt.”

Steve put his hand over hers, but his gaze strayed to the corpse he had lifted off her, and he felt such a black rage rising in himself that he almost rose up to attack it.

“Steve,” Naerys said, her hold on him tightening. “My lo- lord.”

His pulse, slowly easing, rocketed off again as he heard the word she had first meant to say.

“The others, are they well?” Naerys asked quickly, pulling her hand back to push herself up.

If she was content to ignore her near slip, he was happy to table it until a better moment too. A moment later her words registered, and he looked around, taking in the scene - he had seen Naerys on the ground and all other thought had fled his mind. They were in a lane, before an open tent that seemed to be a holding space for bandages, and they were not the only ones present. There were two more corpses, one with its throat cut neatly, and another that had died harder, covered in stab wounds and with Dodger still latched onto his calf, snarling deeply. Betty and some of her girls were there too, Jeyne and Jayne, as well as two of the women from the Reach - Rowan and Florys, sisters - but the first three were holding bloody daggers, and all were slumped down and breathing heavily. They were staring at the corpse, the shock that came with a first kill clear on their faces.

“What happened,” Steve said. It was not a request.

Rowan was the first to find her voice. “They were waiting for us,” she said. She was the one whose face had been battered by the so-called knights who had first taken her from the Reach camp, and she had come to be something of a leader to the women who had elected to stay with Steve’s company. “In the tent.” Perhaps it was the shock, but she seemed resigned by the attack, not surprised.

Steve rose with Naerys, one hand out to steady her, but she didn’t need it. Her sword lay in the dirt nearby, and she took it up. It was wet with blood.

“How are you here?” Betty asked. She remained kneeling, legs trembling minutely, but she had gathered Jeyne and Jayne to herself. All were pale as adrenaline faded, and they were beginning to shiver.

“Cafferen - his squire carried a warning to Robin - so I came as quick as I could,” Steve said. There was still blood on his armour from the earlier fight, and his eyes flicked around, watching for threats. “They can hold without me. This was more…important.” He slowed as his gaze flicked over the face of the man that Dodger was still tearing at. He knew that face.

Steve kicked over the body he had removed from Naerys, ignoring the hole in his chest to look at his face, and then inspected the man with the cut throat. He knew them both.

They had been part of the group that had tried to steal away with the Rowan and Florys and the others for a rape rally.

“Are those…?” Naerys asked, joining him. Her sword was still held at the ready.

“Naerys,” he said. His hand was on her shoulder, reassuring himself, but he couldn’t remember putting it there. “You know what to do. I have to see someone about something.” He knew distantly that there was something else he needed to do, but he was struggling to keep that thought in mind as he felt his anger rising in an unstoppable tide.

X

Steve’s thoughts were cold as he ran. The anger was there, but it was isolated, buried under a shifting glacier. It would reach its target, but until then it would wait. He would assess the battle, and then decide on the path he would take. The result would be the same.

The field of battle had changed in the short time he had left it. The river battle was much as it was, but the bridge - the bridge was a mass of men, bleeding and dying as they fought over inches. The Reach had pushed hard in his absence, and more knights had joined the defence. He felt a small disappointment. He had wanted to go straight to Robert’s position, but this took precedence. The rise and fall of Keladry’s glaive caught his eye, but then he was too close to the river to see over the heads of the knights.

He slowed as he neared the bridge, and he ripped his hammer from the ground as he passed it. Then he was at the defenders, but his stride did not waver.

“Move,” Steve said, and something in his voice pricked at the minds of men over the sound of death and combat, and they moved.

Knights stepped to the side as he advanced, implacable, a path down the centre of the bridge opening for him. Ren watched him go by, an eager hunger on her face, still holding his banner high. When he reached the front he saw four knights holding the line, even as they were forced to give way slowly. Those behind them would step forward to catch blows and give aid as they could, but the Reachmen were pressing hard, and as he watched the knight to Keladry’s right was stabbed in the elbow, rondel knife penetrating the thin plates there, and he fell back, those with him giving way so that he could be replaced.

Steve stepped forward and crushed the skull of the Reach knight to stab him like a grape. Before the body realised it was dead he was stepping forward, kicking it into the next man and sweeping his hammer across his side of the bridge. Three men fell, and he moved into the space they left, killing a man that had just taken the butt of Keladry’s glaive to his face. Hammer swept out again, knocking two men from the bridge and into the water below, and then he was taking his place at the point of the defence, Kel sliding into her spot at his right.

The mood of the attackers changed as those at the front realised who had returned and now stood before them. It wasn’t despair, but it was a near physical thing that swept through them, a realisation that needed no words. Men stepped forward, and men died, but this day Lord America was not content to let them come to him. This time he stepped up to meet them, and with every sweep of his hammer and strike of his shield, they died.

The assault did not continue for long. When it was over, Steve turned to Keladry, ignoring the feel of blood dripping down his face.

“Can you hold?” he asked her.

“I can,” she said.

“After that, I don’t think they’ll come back for a while,” Thomas said nearby. He was clutching at his ribs, where there was a dent in his armour.

Steve glanced at him, only nodding. “Good.” He turned his back on the last of the fleeing Reachmen to stride back across the bridge. Knights got out of his way without needing to be told, and muttering rose in his wake, concerned and wary. He ignored it. He had to see a lord about a knight.