There was no battle the next day, each force declining battle by silent accord, if for different reasons. The few dead were buried and rest was had, though the river gave them an advantage such that the fight at Blueburn had left them worse off afterwards, in both fatigue and wounded. That was not to say that there were none, but under the direction of the strange Myrman, the horror stories of battlefield barbers that men had heard from their fathers were failing to eventuate.

Having been standing at the ready for the past days, Steve’s company had missed out on their exercise and weapon drills, and Walt spent the morning correcting that mistake. Humfrey found himself gifted the axe that Robin’s victim had wielded, a fine, two handed thing with a curving beard and a spike at its back. He was much impressed with it, and so were his friends to see him wield it. Between that and the crossbow that Lyanna had been gifted, the troops were beginning to joke that Steve would have them all outfitted with notable weapons by the end of the war. If it meant getting the same extra attention from Walt and Keladry in its training, however, there were those who would think twice before accepting a similar offer.

It was mid morning by the time the troops finished their exercises, filtering back through the camp to their tents. On their way they passed by the camp follower’s section, where all the small and thankless tasks like laundry and supply distribution took place. It was also where Steve had spent his morning, loitering with intent. By that stage, there were few in the army who had not heard of the events of the day prior, and the sight of the blond giant carving away at a piece of wood as he watched over mere camp followers sent a certain message.

“Ser,” Hugo said, breaking off from the cheerful conversation he’d been having with his friends. “You’re not waiting for anything here?”

“Just keeping an eye on things,” Steve said, whittling away with his knife. He was sitting on a bag of grains, just in the shadow of a tent. “How was training?”

“Osric knocked Talbert down,” the big man said, resting his hand over the aforementioned man’s head when the blond slinger joined him.

“And then Walt made me trip over my own feet right after,” Osric said, ducking away.

“Good work Osric,” Steve said, ignoring his words. “Talbert knows his way around a spear.”

The words gave a boost to the once goatherd, and he grinned.

“We can take over here, Ser,” Hugo said, already taking a seat on a nearby barrel, spear resting against his shoulder.

Steve raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“We need a break anyway,” Osric agreed, finding a seat of his own.

Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, Steve tucked away his delicate carving and accepted his defeat, ignoring the vaguely hypocritical feeling that descended on him for some unknown reason. “I’ll have food and drink sent to you. Get some to Betty and the girls.”

“Aye Ser,” they chorused.

Steve joined the rest of his men heading back to their section of the camp, ambling along behind. For all that he had spent the morning sitting around in the shade, he was pleased with his progress, both in the silent message he had sent and with his carvings. Now was as good a time as any to check on the progress his companions had made.

X

The six of them sat at the table in the main ‘room’ of Steve’s tent, three to a side. Though the sounds of roughhousing and camp life came from beyond the canvas walls, within was quieter, more serious topics under discussion.

“...and he’s still in the stocks,” Robin reported. “There’s a guard on him that rotated out, so I don’t think he’s going anywhere soon.”

Steve nodded, but it was Naerys who spoke. “Good. I may take a stroll there later.”

“Take the washerwomen with you,” Walt grunted, picking at his fingernails with a knife.

Naerys smiled, a mean thing, but justified.

“Kemmet is under control then,” Steve said. “What about his friends?”

“None seem to support him,” Keladry reported. Unlike the others in casual clothing, she still wore her gambeson, as was her habit. “A knight whose lands bordered his was complaining loudly about him this morning, and his lackeys are hiding their faces.”

“What about the men who came upon us after the- afterwards?” Naerys asked.

Shortly after Steve’s departure, a small group of men had stumbled across the scene of the ambush, and had been quick to render aid.

“Any luck, Lyanna?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Lyanna said, still pulling her hair out of the unusual style she had put it in for the morning. “They were there ‘cause they were injured on the march north, healed but not ready to stand in ranks yet.” She tugged at a stubborn bit of braid. “From all over, but one was a Fawnton man. They were on their way to help at the medic tent.”

Steve drummed a beat on the table with his fingers. Coincidence that they were nearby, happenstance that one of them was sworn to Cafferen. A thin link, but a link all the same. “They say anything that stuck out?”

Lyanna shrugged. “Just that they hoped ‘Lady Naerys’ was alright. I think they meant it.”

“Hmm.”

“Then it seems unlikely that we will see any trouble from Kemmet or his ilk,” Naerys said, “but what about Cafferen?”

“He was making clear his disgust for the man, and the matter,” Keladry said. She smoothed a lock of hair away behind her ear; it would need cutting soon. “What he says in private, I could not say.”

There was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t think Cafferen was behind it,” Steve said, speaking slowly, “but I don’t like it.”

“You could go to Baratheon,” Walt suggested.

“A gut feeling isn’t evidence,” Steve said.

“Do you need it?” the grizzled soldier asked. “Cafferen has what, a thousand men? If you tell the lords to choose between that thousand and you…”

“It wouldn’t have to be the thousand, just Cafferen or Steve,” Naerys said. Her arms were crossed, and she tapped a single finger on one bicep as she considered.

Steve shook his head, reining in a grimace.

“What don’t you like about it?” Lyanna asked, leaning in. Next to her, Robin mirrored the movement unconsciously.

“Cafferen’s man, Jared, said he overheard them plotting last night,” Steve said, “but then he sat on it until this morning.”

“Coward then?” Walt offered, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“Maybe. Or maybe he didn’t,” Steve said. “Cafferen was the one to mention that Jared told him that morning. Made a point of it, even.”

“You think he was leading him,” Naerys said. Her posture tightened. “Because he had been told the night before, but he waited.”

“Maybe,” Steve said. One hand flexed, as if around a throat.

“Hang on,” Robin said, “what about Kemmet then? He - Cafferen - was proper angry when that came out.”

“He may not have known he was involved,” Keladry offered. “Three loosely affiliated hedge knights is a different matter to a sworn and landed knight.”

“Too much we don’t know,” Steve said, letting out a sigh. “Not for sure.”

“Then what do we do?” Robin asked, frustrated.

“We keep an eye out for each other,” Steve said. “But otherwise, do as we were. None of the ladies go anywhere alone.” Such was a given for any woman travelling with an army.

“But if he knew and didn’t tell you until the morning-” Robin began to argue.

“-then he’s a piss poor excuse for a man, but that doesn’t mean I can go to Robert and ask for him to be clapped in the stocks next to Kemmet,” Steve said, jaw set. “Not without evidence.”

“You could,” Walt suggested again.

“He won’t,” Naerys said, a strange mix of resigned and affectionate.

Steve gave her an apologetic look. “I know you were the one he endangered.”

“If you were the same kind of noble that uses his power to get what he wants, you wouldn’t be m- our Steve,” Naerys said. She uncrossed her arms, laying a fond hand on his knee.

Walt grumbled, but it was only for the sake of it. “We wait for him to pull something, then.”

“I don’t think he will,” Steve said, still judging with his gut, “but yes. Lyanna, keep half an eye on that Jared, of the Rainwood,” Steve said. “If he turns up dead somewhere, let me know.” If the only man that could say for sure when Cafferen had truly been warned of the danger was killed, he would take steps. Until then, he would watch, and wait.

“I will,” Lyanna said, finally having gotten her hair back under control.

“Oh, and let’s keep the details of this from Toby,” Steve said, as a sudden worry occurred. “I don’t want any accidents to happen.” He glanced at Walt. “Or anything that isn’t an accident.”

Walt raised his hands up as if in surrender, and that was the end of serious matters. Robin and Lyanna were quick to leave, heads put together, while Walt and Keladry followed behind, already discussing some matter that had come up during the exercises of the morning. Steve and Naerys were left alone in the tent, a dangerous situation to be sure.

Naerys shifted from her chair, leaning against the table not quite directly in front of Steve. His hand went to her thigh, thumb smoothing across the fabric of her trousers.

“I can take care of him, if you need me to,” Steve told her, looking up into her eyes. He wouldn’t assassinate the man - but he wouldn’t need to, either.

“I know,” Naerys said, tracing circles on the back of his hand. “But I meant what I said.”

Steve leaned in, laying a kiss on her other thigh.

She smothered a giggle, tickled, and tugged at his ear, before growing serious once more. “If I thought he was behind it…”

“You wouldn’t have to ask,” Steve said.

Naerys nodded once, but evidently thought that such matters had been dwelt on long enough, because she leaned down to plant her lips on his crown.

He seized his chance to blow a raspberry on her chest, and she drew back, shrieking. She swatted him on the head, even as she struggled to control herself. “Steve!”

“What?” Steve asked, guileless.

Naerys gave a hmph, but her only move was to shift slightly closer, setting one foot on the edge of his chair. “What is it you were carving at earlier? Did you run out of paint?”

“No, nothing like that. I just thought I’d try my hand at recreating an instrument from home,” Steve said, producing the fruits of his labour that morning. It was certainly no figurine, and the first few attempts had been failures, but he had a good feeling about this one.

“Oh, what kind?” Naerys asked.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Steve said. He felt an evil little grin threatening at his lips. He hadn’t been sure it would be possible, but his efforts had produced what he thought was a half decent reed. Time would tell how suitable the material he used would be, and he needed more, but it was a start.

Naerys raised a brow, unimpressed. “I could make you tell me.”

“Oh no. Don’t. Stop.” If the tone of his words hadn’t been enough to make his thoughts clear, then the touch that was ghosting up her calf certainly did.

It took another ten minutes for them to emerge from the tent, and if either was a little ruffled, none of the troops present commented - though Ursa, passing through with a load of washing, needed no words, not with the expression she gave Naerys as they made eye contact.

X

The day continued on, a moment of calm in the war, though many dealt with it differently. Some were glad for it, taking the chance to do nothing or to catch up on things that had fallen behind - lessons, reading, letters - while others saw it as a frustrating delay, another day between them and their ultimate goals. Time passed at the same rate for all, no matter how they might see it differently, and eventually the sun began to sink lower in the sky. Firewood was distributed, still on hand even if those that gathered it had to ride further and further each day, and rations were given out. Those with privilege and power, or the luck to be one of Lord America’s men, had wine to look forward to, but for most it was ale if they were lucky.

The dull orange sun was just touching the horizon when Steve’s company were beginning their cleanup, and it was then that two cloaked strangers came to the section of the camp that had been claimed for the white star. At first there were mutterings and ill feeling as men moved to block their way, but then one of them raised their hood a touch, and they paused. The way was cleared, and directions given to their captain.

Steve was sat by one of the fires, in a circle of his men on stumps and logs. Yorick was there, as were his squad members Richard and Than, hedge knights both, but so were Willem and Ren, and Ortys too, now distinguishable from his twin by the scar over his eye that he lacked.

“... and look, I’m sure she might look real pretty, but what you need to consider is if five minutes of fun is worth months of burning every time you take a leak,” Steve was saying to his men.

“She’s real pretty though,” Richard said, pepper and salt beard set in an expression of utter seriousness. “I ain’t never seen a whore so pretty, and I spent a whole Gulltown tourney’s winnings on a night at the brothel once.”

“What if it were ten minutes?” Than asked, just as serious.

“Four minutes of foreplay and four of cuddling doesn’t count,” Steve told him, and the others roared and jeered.

It was at that point that the cloaked strangers arrived, and again there was a moment where those with Steve trended to scowling, already half rising to help these intruders on their way, but then the hoods of their cloaks were pulled back, and they stopped, falling back to their seats and dipping their heads.

“Robert,” Steve said, raising his still mostly full wineskin to them. “Thomas. Snuck out, have we?”

Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, let out a gusty sigh. He was dressed down to blend in, even if his boots gave him away. “If Samuel makes me double check one more supply count, I might - well,” he said, shaking his head. Then he grinned. “Also, I heard you had Mace Tyrell’s personal wine service hidden away here.”

Fortune smiled on them, and there were a pair of extra skins on hand, and they were handed over as the two big men joined the circle.

“What about you Thomas?” Steve asked, nudging a bit of wood into a better position with his foot.

“Lord Errol sent me to watch over him,” Thomas admitted, pulling the cork free with his teeth and taking a swig.

Robert paused mid draw. “You said you could sneak me out of it all.”

“I did,” Thomas said. “I just told Lord Errol what I was planning first.”

“Skulduggery, from my own sworn man,” Robert said with a wag of his finger, but the easy smile he wore made a lie of his words.

Thomas just shrugged, and if his thick frame and blue eyes weren’t enough, his smile was the final nail for any who doubted any relation between the two men.

“What about you lads, how goes it?” Robert asked, looking to the others now. “I heard that mad marching song that greybeard had you carrying on with this morning.”

“If we were to fight, I’d say I looked forward to it,” Yorick said, putting himself forward after a slight pause where no one was game to answer. “But even another day of a stiff saddle arse is a respite from Walt.”

“I don’t blame you,” Robert said. He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Thomas was telling me of the man after that little adventure through the Reach camp. Have you knighted him yet?” he asked, looking to Steve.

“He threatened to start cutting ears off if I tried it,” Steve said. “Didn’t specify whose.”

“What about that other man of yours, Keladry?” he asked.

“I think it might be easier to get Walt to agree,” Steve said. “Keladry doesn’t think he’s earned it.”

Thomas pulled a face. “I’ve seen smallfolk fare worse against a field of wheat with their scythes than he did with his glaive on that bridge.”

“Keladry is a monster,” Ortys said, voice full of admiration, wine giving him the courage to speak up in such company. “That glaive of his isn’t light, either.”

Robert laughed, taking another draw of his wine. “I would think not! I saw him carve a man hip to shoulder yesterday, made me glad I brought the far-eye…”

Between Robert’s easy manner and Steve’s presence, the circle continued on comfortably, talking and boasting of this or that feat they had witnessed or achieved. Willem found himself cheeking the Stormlord over the size of his hammer, receiving a bellowing laugh in return, and it was not until a minute after he had spoken that he even realised what he had done. The sun crept lower, and soon it was the fire that was casting most of the light, sending shadows to dancing as a dozen other circles just like that one spent their evening in much the same way, soaking up the cheer and camaraderie.

As the night wore on and wineskins grew thin, the topics grew less and less serious, and believable. By the time Robert was boasting of the time he and Ned had snuck off to tip cows, drunk, only to be confronted by the bull of the herd and forced to wrestle it, the moon was starting to rise. It seemed to be a signal, and Yorick was the first to heed it, knowing well Steve’s expectations for his squad leaders and the example they would set for the men.

It did not take long for the rest of the men to follow suit, and soon there were only three men left by the first. A quiet set in, but it was comfortable, and Steve took the chance to bank the flames, using a branch to shuffle the coals and embers around. They cast a dull red glow, enough for Steve to see clearly by even before considering the moon.

Robert let out a breath. “Much as I’ve liked this, I didn’t just come here to get away from my work,” he said.

Steve only looked to him, the burn of the coals reflected in his eyes.

“Swiftback isn’t getting out of those stocks, not before we’ve sent Peake packing,” Robert said. “All his wealth is going to your woman, and his line has lost their holding.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Does this satisfy you?”

The soldier did not not answer immediately. “...this punishment,” he said, “is it typical?”

“No,” Robert said. “He plotted harm, but did not achieve it. Stripping him of his holdings was a way for Cafferen to address the stain on his own reputation.”

“So if he hadn’t been sworn to Cafferen, he only would have had to pay a fine?” Steve asked. A frown began to steal its way across his face.

“He’d be dead, like as not,” Robert said, shrugging.

Steve paused. “And that would be a lesser punishment?”

Now it was Robert’s turn to blink. “Yes?”

“It is not easy to gain a holding, even one so small as a landed knight,” Thomas said. He was staring into the fire. “Maybe his family has been in service to Fawnton since the Dance. Maybe an ancestor did a great deed. Whatever it was, he lost it, and like as not his family will never hold such a thing again.”

Steve thought back to the suicidal commitment that the assaults on the bridge had displayed. Those men had been promised a knighthood and land to build on, and that had been enough to see them stepping over a carpet of corpses to get at him. “I see.”

“He tried to avoid it by asking to take the Black, but that wasn’t happening,” Robert said. “So now he’s a wandering knight again. Whenever he’s let out of the stocks to wander, that is.”

A slow nod was his answer. Steve was still coming to grips with the norms and values of this land, and every now and then he was still caught out by them, but he was learning. “Then yes. I am satisfied with your judgement.”

“Good,” Robert said, leaning back, knocking a fist on his knee. “Good. Samuel was pleased with it all; said you’d made his life much easier.”

“It’s a good thing we spoke about that when we did,” Steve said lightly. He glanced at Thomas. “Robert, I’ll be honest - if Naerys had been hurt, I wouldn’t have come to you.” His face was stone.

“Nor should you,” Robert said, voice dropping to a black growl. “Nor should any man when his love is hurt. When I get my hands on that blighted Targaryen cunt - he took my parents, stole Lyanna, if they think this will be made right in a Great Council -” words failed him, and his hands found a branch the thickness of a man’s arm. Cracks and splintering sounded as he gripped it tight, eyes dark with fury.

Steve and Thomas watched him, waiting for the sudden mood to pass. Both knew there was no point in trying to use words to calm him, and that any physical gesture would not be received well, even if for different reasons. Slowly, with difficulty, he mastered himself.

“No,” Robert said, deliberate. “They are lucky you trained her.”

“When you get Lyanna back, you could do the same,” Steve said, satisfied that the young man had control of himself once more.

It spurred a smile from the Stormlord, faint, but still there. “I could.” The branch he held was added to the fire in three parts, and he brushed splinters from his hands.

Quiet fell again, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“We should return,” Thomas at length, before glancing at Steve. “Lord Errol will have my hide if not.”

“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” Robert said, grumbling, the last embers of his rage fading.

“Are you still set on that other thing…?” Thomas asked.

At that, Robert brightened. “That’s right. Steve, I’ll be joining you on the bridge come the morrow. Stag and Star will stand together, and we’ll give the Reach a right buggering when they think to try us!”

“Guess we won’t have to worry about them not stepping up tomorrow, then,” Steve said. That would change things.

Robert only laughed, rising to his feet, and Thomas followed. Steve was soon left alone by the fire, staring into its depths as he thought.

At length, he sighed. Tomorrow would be bloody.

X

The bridge was slick with the blood and viscera of dozens, and dozens more still came, advancing towards certain death. Black stag on yellow and white star on blue stood tall on the bridge, proud and taunting. Thomas and Ren kept them steady in the third rank, and they seemed to serve as a siren song to the men of the Reach, drawing them towards the two men who stood at the front, hammers reaping a bloody toll through whoever dared to challenge them.

And challenge them they did.

Steve knew that a knighthood and land had been promised, but on that day the enemy came at them with such fury that he had to wonder if they’d been told he and Robert had been involved with their mothers as well. Men threw themselves at them, not even trying to slay them, only to busy their weapons so that another might strike them in the opening.

It was not enough.

Baratheon fury saw men pulped and crushed, hammer blows laughing at the attempts made to slow them, sweeping through the men that came before it and then the man next to them as well. Gore dripped from an antlered helm, missing several prongs now, but that was what happened when men threw their lives away trying to seize them, only for it to break off easily, leaving them with but a moment to regret before there was no thought at all. A man was seized by the throat and used to foul the strikes of two more, even as his hammer struck yet another foe from the bridge. Now and then the stag lord would fall to laughter, deep and booming, as he was swept up by his battle lust. His footing slipped, stone made too slick for metal by the blood he spilled, and he took a step forward, killing and killing…but for all his fury, he could not match the man beside him.

Men came before Lord America, and men died. It could not be called a fight - men simply stepped forward, were examined, and killed. They threw themselves at what they thought were openings, only to find that even with his hammer buried in a man’s chest and his shield catching a blow aimed at the man beside him, the monster on the bridge could still break a man’s neck with a kick to the head. Blue eyes stared out from a face splattered with blood and devoid of any emotion, let alone mercy. There was only the cold calculation of a super soldier let loose on an unsuspecting world, reaping the kind of bloody toll in the way that only one of his kind could. If there was any way for the walking dead to know, they would give prayers of thanks that he was the only one.

Steve put the top spike of his hammer through a man’s head, pulling it back with such force that the curved spike on the back tore through another man’s neck, and then he was bringing it back and around to launch a lunging knight off his feet and into the air. He came down hard on the bridge parapet, already dead, but in that time Steve had killed three more men who had hurled themselves at him. Again the bridge grew thick with corpses, and again they stepped forward.

A flurry of arrows rose from across the river, and Steve tracked them as he drove his shield through the bridge of a nasal helm and swept another two men from the bridge to the waters below. He tilted his head down to shield his face, ignoring the arrows as they showered down. He caught a mace with his shield, and redirected a war pick with the haft of his hammer, sight unneeded. A jump and two snap kicks saw their wielders dead, and he crushed the skull of another before he hit the ground.

They stood on wood now; they had advanced far enough that they had reached the washed out section of the bridge and the timber that had replaced it. It served better than stone to soak up the blood they spilled, but still it soon ran slick.

Men approached. Men died.

Robert made to step forward again, but a barked command broke him from his tunnel vision, and he looked to the man beside him. Reason intruded enough to rein his battlelust in, and he held firm. They had left a trail of blood and corpses behind them, enough to rout near any foe, if only they could see and understand it. Now holding firm, they soon would. Whatever Peake had promised them, it was not enough.

Slowly, the walking dead began to realise. For some it was too late, but they would convince those that came after. Bloody weapons and red hands could be ignored, but not when a man had to step over a small mound of corpses to reach their goal. The push began to falter.

Instinct had Steve look down, and he found himself meeting the gaze of another man looking up. There was a gap in the wood, and the man held a spear. The moment seemed to stretch out, even in the chaos of the fight, and then the man thrust his spear upwards.

Steve shifted, letting the speartip scrap along his greave, angling it away from his groin. He looked back to the fight that mattered, snapping the haft with a stomp.

Perhaps seeing the dismissive way he had dealt with it affected the foemen, or perhaps the bodies were finally enough to outweigh whatever prize had been promised. Perhaps it was the way Steve almost ignored a mace blow upon his shoulder, and headbutted the man to wield it, sending him to the ground, insensate. The Reachmen broke, knights and men-at-arms turning almost as one, fleeing in a tide. There was no barrier in those that stood behind them, for they were running as well, as if glad for a reason not to advance into the meat grinder that was the bridge held by stag and star.

Robert stumbled, grabbing onto the parapet for support as he heaved in huge breaths, as if his strength had only lasted so long as it was needed, but Steve’s focus was elsewhere. The man he had headbutted was stirring, and he set his hammer down to take the man by the neck. He lifted him with one hand, ignoring his faint struggles.

“Nod if you can understand me,” Steve told him, holding him up before himself, close.

Jerkily, the man nodded. He was a knight, and the front of his helm was dented from the force of the headbutt, a trickle of blood coming through the grill.

“I have a message for Peake,” Steve continued. The blood splatter across his face and helm was less of a splatter and more of a coat, and it was beginning to dry in place, staining it red. A rivulet of sweat cleared a trail down one cheek. “Can you take it to him? Word for word?”

Again the knight nodded, but it was more frantic now, as if he feared the result should he be unable.

“I know you’re a lily-livered worm, Peake, happy to send men to die so you might avoid danger, but the time has come for you to make a choice. Fight me and earn back some tiny hint of your manhood, or let it be known for all time what the name Peake really stands for. I’ll even come and fight alone before your army if you’re too much of a coward to come to the bridge.”

“I’ll tell him,” the knight wheezed, voice strained more by fear than by the hold Steve had around his neck. “I’ll tell him.”

Steve said nothing, only releasing the man and stepping back. The knight stumbled, almost losing his feet, but he managed, turning to stagger away drunkenly. He was muttering under his breath, repeating the words Steve had said to him.

The super soldier watched him leave, almost statue-still. He had killed more at Blueburn, but the sheer butchery of the day had left an anger deep in his bones, and he had had enough. It was time to put an end to it all.

If Peake didn’t accept his challenge on the morrow, he would just have to go to him instead.