Grassfield Keep was no simple keep. It had been once, but those days were long ago, and now it was a castle in truth. The castle’s namesake remained in its centre, now surrounded by four walls, thirty feet high with a strong gatehouse and a tower at each corner. Each reached twenty feet higher, and the foremost two even had ballista atop them. Green banners lined with flowers fluttered from each, clean and well maintained. It was a formidable structure, speaking of power and martial might, of strength and determination. Sat on a low hill, looking down on the nearby town at the river crossing, it seemed to dare any enemy of the Reach to trespass against it. ‘Try me’, it said. ‘Cross my fields at your own peril’. It was a perfect example of the nobility and chivalry of the Reach, of their ability and courage and steadfastness in the face of any foe.

Seven Reach knights were unconscious in front of it, hogtied on their bellies.

Steve finished the last knot on the eighth, and grabbed the rope to carry him to his fellows, placing him down gently, just off the main path. None of the men on the walls were laughing now, as he turned back to the still open gates, crossing his arms. One foot tapped impatiently as he watched a squire hurry to armour up his knight master, just through the portal. The knight himself was casting nervous looks at Steve, as if worried he would run out of patience and charge through. The tapping of his foot intensified.

The area he had claimed when he planted his banner was open and clear, the ‘front’ of the castle facing towards the steepest side of the hill, towards the river. At the river itself there was a town proper, though it was a decent walk away. In time it might grow to envelop the castle, but for now there was only a collection of dwellings around the other walls, resembling something just on the right side of a shanty town. The castle path itself snaked around the west side and north through them, before curving back around the base of the hill to connect to the town. It was not a position that a foe would find simple to approach unseen.

Not unless the defenders had something else occupying their attention. Armour straps tightened and checked, the ninth knight marched out of the castle like a man going to his execution, open faced sallet helm showing a resigned and gloomy expression. Behind him, three squires peered around the interior edge of the gates, heads in a row.

The knight fell into a practised stance, steel ringing free from its sheath. The blade almost hummed as he gave a number of preparatory swings, before stilling with the hilt held high by his head, sword pointed towards his foe. He took a breath, and charged with a yell.

Steve charged harder. He clotheslined the knight as he stepped out of his thrust, almost spinning him over in place, and the man was knocked down hard into the cobblestones. He wheezed, dazed but trying to roll to his feet, but it was not to be. Steve kicked him in the wrist, jarring the sword he still held from his hand, but still he tried to roll and rise. A knee to the jaw brought it to an end, and he stopped struggling, shifting feebly. Steve knelt and rolled him onto his side for safety, and to make it easier to hogtie him. When his hand went to his hip, however, he found he had used up all he had brought.

“I’ve run out of rope,” Steve called, standing.

There was a pause. “What?” a guardsman called back, disbelieving.

“I’ve run out of rope,” Steve repeated himself, louder, as if lack of hearing was the problem. “Don’t suppose I could trouble you for some?”

There was another, longer pause. “We’ll not give you any fecking rope!”

Steve put his hands on his hips and frowned up at the castle walls. “Look, it’s either that or I come and get some.”

Before the guards could do more than exchange nervous looks, a new figure made themselves known, stepping out from the gatehouse to look down at him from the walls.

“Ser Rogers,” the man called. Like the other men he had defeated, he was clad in plate, but this was of finer make, and he wore a green tabard. “Would you be Lord America, the victor of the melee at the Tournament of Harrenhal?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Steve answered.

“The same Lord America who fled King’s Landing with guests of His Grace, King Aerys?” He spoke strongly, like a magistrate laying charges.

“I’d describe them more as hostages, but yeah.”

“The same who returned only to abduct Ser Selmy, the very man who knighted you?” the man pressed.

“...yeah,” Steve said, drawing the word out, tone rising like it was a question.

“The one responsible for carving a path across the Reach, burning our supplies?”

Steve raised his arms and shrugged, in the same ‘what can you do?’ that most of his commanding officers had grown to know only too well.

The man who could only be the lord of the castle, Lord Meadows, glowered down at him. He was not unhandsome, but the situation had set his lips into something that threatened to resemble a pout. “I received a letter two days past, requesting I dispatch men to hold a crossing in case you led your men north.”

“Yeah, they seemed like they were in a real hurry when we passed them, too.”

Meadows grumbled to himself. “You cannot sincerely believe that you can defeat my men one by one,” he called out.

“I can do this all day,” Steve said, fighting to keep his expression stern, holding off a shit eating grin.

“Two of those knights down there I have defeated only twice in all my attempts. I can recognise when I am outmatched,” Meadows said. “You appear to be a man of valour, but we will not continue to engage with you.”

“That suits me just fine,” Steve said. He fell into a ready stance, not quite ‘at ease’, but something that any military man that had stood long watch would recognise.

“Nor will I be penned in my own castle should you seek to prevent us from stopping whatever mischief your men are up to,” Meadows said sternly. “That my knights are treated fairly is the only reason I treat you so in turn.”

“That’s fine too,” Steve said, shrugging again. There was a ripple along the wall as the guardsmen that had slowly gathered to see the absurd spectacle reacted to his apparent lack of care.

Meadows squinted down at him. “What in the Seven Hells are you playing at, America?!”

“I’m here to accept your surrender,” Steve said.

Before Meadows could do more than splutter, hoofbeats sounded on the path to Steve’s left, and he glanced to see who came. It was only a single horse, and there was no rider, for it was Fury. Hoofbeats on dirt changed to loud clattering as the destrier reached the cobblestones, and he came to a stop beside Steve, stepping around the downed knights.

“What is it, boy?” Steve asked his mount. He rubbed the animal along his neck, earning an affectionate bump. Unseen by those on the wall, he plucked a rolled note from where it was wedged in his bridle, and read it quickly. His people were in position and ready. “Alright. Well done. Away you go.”

Fury seemed to realise that he had no pockets with which to conceal apples or sugarcubes, and he turned with a huff, trotting back down the path and away. Steve looked up to the walls, to the gatehouse with men atop it and the not quite crowded walls on either side.

“I’m coming to you now,” Steve announced, and began to approach the still open gates. The squires, still peering around the corner at him, blanched as one and ducked out of sight.

Meadows turned towards the gatehouse and gave a sharp nod to someone out of sight. An instant later, the portcullis came speeding down with a rattle and crash, teeth sinking into holes in the path. Steve did not so much as slow.

The steel lattice of the portcullis looked like a breeze to climb, but the top of the gate arch was recessed and then he would have to leap up and to the side to grasp a merlon. He could have done it, but it would have left him face to face with the defenders, and he’d end up having to kick someone clear off the wall, which just sounded downright hazardous. Instead he came to a stop by the barrier, and lowered himself into a squat, back straight. Meadows leaned out from the wall to keep his eye on him, resulting in giving the lord front row seats as he grabbed the metal gate and began to lift.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Meadows begin to gape at him as he rose, not easily, but smoothly, bringing the portcullis with him. He took a breath, and expelled with a strong exhale as he lifted it up above his head, stepping forward and through. He let it fall behind him, hitting the ground with another great crash and continuing to stride forward.

Ahead, one of the squires peered around the corner again, feeling safe enough to do so, just in time to see him nearing as he strolled past the murderholes of the gatehouse above. The kid’s eyes widened in alarm, and he scampered, squeaking a warning.

“He’s through!” Meadows was shouting. “What do I mea- I mean he’s through the gate, he lifted the portcullis up and walked through! Drop the next!”

Steve stepped into what appeared to be the outer bailey just as a second portcullis fell behind him, this one heavier and stronger. It might have taken a bit of effort to lift, but thankfully he didn’t have to. Ahead were the walls of the original keep, a tall square building whose size hinted at a yard within. Like the outer walls, the gates were open, though there was a man staring slack jawed at him, standing on a drawbridge over a narrow moat that sat around it. He could already hear the clatter of boots on stone as the gathered guardsmen rushed to confront him.

They bore maces, these men, clad in maille and gambeson, and Steve bobbed and weaved out of the way as the first of them reached him and swung. “Hello there,” he said, footwork light as he dodged. “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered my offer?” Another attempt to conk him on the head was his answer. “That’s fair,” he said, glancing at the near parade of men hurrying down the exposed stairs, rushing to surround him. A quick count revealed near two dozen of them. It would not be enough.

Steve batted the next mace swing aside with his shield, and followed through with a picture perfect right hook. He didn’t wait to see the man collapse, strings cut, already turning for the next. Hammer and javelins were still on his back, as he laid about with steel covered fists. Men-at-arms were knocked down almost as soon as they could arrive, and the attempt to bury him under weight of numbers struggled to surround him, let alone bury him.

Right-left-right knocked two men down and into a third, as Steve stepped far too quickly and far too lightly for a man in armour such as his. A bell began to ring frantically from the gatehouse as Steve picked the next man up and hurled him into a cluster of others, knocking them down. Half of those who had gathered to watch him challenge the knights of the castle were already down, but the tolling bell was calling more.

Towards the nearest stairs Steve advanced, dispensing fists and elbows, though his burdens made it awkward to do so. A carpet of broken and groaning bodies grew in his wake, those few who got off lightly coming back for more.

One of the squires rushed him, a dropped mace in hand and fear worn clearly, not even armour to defend himself. Steve ignored the blow that the kid landed on his shoulder, and for a moment fear was overcome by exhilaration, but then he realised that Steve was reaching for him. He blanched, darting away, but he was too slow, and blocked in by the man behind him besides. Seized by his tunic, he squawked as he was lifted and thrown, coming down on another man who cursed as he was forced to abort his strike to catch him with a stagger. Steve pushed him aside and over negligently as he passed, coming to the base of the stairs.

The first two men to face him on the narrow and exposed stairs leapt clear off, but not out of cowardice. The third was left to attack him, striking awkwardly as the wall fouled any blow from his right hand, and he swiftly joined his fellows, but not of his own free will. Steve lashed back with his foot, catching the first of the two jumpers in the chest and sending him flying back, putting an end to the attempt to pin him on the stairs, not even looking back as he pushed upwards. He pushed another man off to the ground, but then he was too high to do so lightly, and he grabbed the next man like a shield and charged, reversing the flow of guards as they were outright forced back up to the parapets.

Steve emerged atop the wall, a pile of men before him, struggling against one another as they tried to rise and face him, but they were far too slow and far too entangled. He stepped over them, towards the entrance to the gatehouse where Lord Meadows waited, naked steel bared in his fist.

“You’ll not open the way for your raiders,” Meadows said, blocking the way. “My men sabotage the chains as I speak.”

Steve only smiled, something that caused worry to brew in Meadows’ gut. He brought his hands up - but then he paused, dropping the boxing stance. Instead, his hand went to the hammer on his back, pulling it free and spinning it with an ease that belied its weight. Meadows swallowed, but didn’t budge. He raised his sword high, pommel just above his crown, and waited.

Someone shifted behind him, trying to sneak up on his back, but Steve only twirled his hammer, imparting more force with a flex of his wrist than any man could possibly expect. The hammer swung up to collect the ambusher in the chest, lifting him from his feet as his ribs were cracked with the force of the blow. Meadows took his chance, stepping forward and striking hard, but his downwards sweep was met by a shield. Steve hadn’t so much as glanced away from Meadows, but still the man had predicted it, wrongly seeing an opening, and he faltered as a dull note rang out from the impact.

“I’m here to accept your surrender,” Steve said, still polite as the note faded.

Meadows was caught between consternation and irritation, but already he was drawing his blade up to strike again. More men were finding their feet again, ready to rush Steve from behind, and he could see the hope in the lord’s eyes that if he could just hold out, they could swarm and overpower him.

That hope was dashed as Steve moved, almost fast enough to blur. He feinted twice with shield and hammer, and then his leg lashed up to kick him in the ribs, hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs, before he shifted his balance and swept his legs from under him. The man lost his support before he knew what was happening, and his helm rang out with a clang as he hit the edge of the crenellation on the way down. In an instant, Steve dropped his hammer in favour of the lord, picking him up one handed and turning to the men-at-arms that had finally recovered. Like a talisman, the groggy and pained lord was used to ward them off, and they stopped, wary.

The bell continued to toll, ringing out its warning, and Steve’s free hand went to his hip, even as he kept his eye on the men-at-arms. They kept their distance, worried for their lord, but unwilling to give him space, even as more men trickled in from elsewhere in the castle and along the walls. After a few moments of fiddling, he managed to untie the knot that held his horn in place at his hip, the horn that he had won at Harrenhal. He brought it to his lips, and blew.

A dirge rang out, echoing over the castle and its grounds, mournful tone drowning out the bell. As the last notes faded, all was silent for a moment, before the bell began to ring once more, taking a moment to find its rhythm.

“What was that?” Meadows asked, slowly shaking off the pain and dizziness of the blow he took. He was trying to find his feet, but still Steve was doing most of the work keeping him upright.

“That was me signalling my men,” Steve said. “Oh, sorry. This was a diversion.”

“What?” Meadows said, casting off his slurring. “But we broke the mechanism.”

“Not the front gates,” Steve said. He shifted from holding his captive up, to holding him in place with a hand on his shoulder. “The postern.”

“It is barred and locked with iron,” Meadows said, almost scoffing. “How do you expect to…” he trailed off, as his eyes caught movement across the outer bailey.

Men streamed into and across the yard from out of sight, making for the walls of both keep and bailey. The keep itself had raised its drawbridge, the time spent capturing Lord Meadows giving them the chance to lock it all down, but that didn’t stop his men from breaking up by squads and seizing important points under the direction of their leaders.

For a moment, the men-at-arms on the wall not close enough to hear them were bolstered by their arrival, thinking themselves reinforced - but only for a moment. Then they realised that the approaching troops wore unfamiliar armour, brigandine over gambesons of navy, white, and red, and woe set in. The apparent knight wielding the enormous polearm at the head of the squad making right for them only sealed it.

“So about that surrender,” Steve said.

X

With the lord of the castle in their grasp, it did not take long to force the surrender of the men-at-arms in the outer bailey and on the walls. The keep itself was silent, though movement could be seen at times through barred windows and at its peak. There were still defenders within, though Steve was confident they held the advantage of numbers. Counting those outside, or even against those outside alone they did not, but that was less important when they had been stripped of their weapons, armour, and boots and marched to join the pigs and chickens in their pens. Those injured were taken to the stables to be seen to by Corivo, some uninjured comrades set to fetching and carrying with their word - and that of their lord - as bond.

With the gatehouse surrendered, Walt was placed in charge of its defence, even though the portcullis winches had been sabotaged as Meadows had said. Keladry and her squad held the postern gate, an unpleasant surprise waiting for anyone attempting to reverse their feat. The damage that Steve had done to it under cover of night was not easily fixed, but no assault was expected, even with those in the dwellings around the castle aware that something had happened. All told, the seizure of the outer defences of the castle and the defanging of its defenders was a smooth and ordered operation, honed through practice and now put into use writ large. Grassfield Keep may not be a simple holdfast, but Steve’s men knew a thing or two about removing a man as a threat without resorting to killing.

To Steve’s dismay, it had taken him a short while to remember the hogtied knights outside the gate and send someone to get them, though they had been thankful to be retrieved, if abashed.

When Steve approached the keep entrance, he did not do so alone. His squad was at his back, Meadows walked at his left, unarmed, and Naerys was at his right, very much armed. She even wore the leather duelling armour he had purchased back in Gulltown, and her hair was tied in a bun at her neck. It had taken Steve a moment to remember that her presence hadn’t been planned for, assuming that she would stay with the other noncombatants, having to drag his mind back on task. Not before she noticed his staring, however. It was a satisfied look she wore as she walked at his side.

“Hullo the keep!” Steve shouted, centering himself in the present. “My name is Ser Steve Rogers! I fight for those wronged by the tyrant Aerys Targaryen, and I am here to accept your surrender!”

His words bounced off the keep walls, fading quickly, and for a moment there was no response. Then there was a creak of wood, and a section of the drawbridge opened inwards, a door cunningly hidden within it. A woman was revealed, clad in a fine green dress and staring out at them imperiously.

“By what right do you demand such?” she said. Her spine was straight and her voice strong, though her eyes flicked to Meadows, almost too quickly to notice.

“By strength of arms,” Steve said, “and by holding Lord Meadows hostage.” He was feeling very Shakespeare in the park. “May I have your name?”

“I am Lady Meadows,” the lady said, “and if you have harmed my hus…” she trailed off suddenly, staring. It wasn’t at Steve, or at her husband however, but at another. “Naenae?” she blurted suddenly, incredulous.

Naerys tilted her head, staring in turn. “...Missy?!”

Lord Meadows turned as well, brows raised and taking in Naerys in a new light, like he recognised the pet name.

Steve sighed. He supposed things had been going too smoothly anyway.

“Has Sharp Point chosen to rebel?” Missy asked, still off kilter. “I had not thought your cousin to have-” she cut herself off, trying to find a polite way to word things.

Naerys had fewer compunctions. “I left that oathbreaking lump behind nine months ago,” she said, almost snorting. She too was off balance, torn between the formality of the situation and the ease of a lost childhood friend, found again. “That is, my loyalty is with Lord America, now.”

Regret crossed Lady Meadows’ face, swiftly concealed, and she looked away from Naerys back to Steve. “Of course. You demand the surrender of the keep in return for my husband’s safety?”

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Even if you weren’t Naerys’ friend, I wouldn’t harm your husband, or any of the hostages we have.”

The lady of the keep blinked at him, nonplussed. “Then how do you mean to force our surrender?”

“If you don’t open the way for me,” Steve said, shrugging, “I’ll come in and do it myself.”

A dubious look was his answer, but Lord Meadows swallowed and spoke. “Melissa, he’s quite serious.”

Still she was not convinced. “You’ve said Garth and our people will not be harmed. Either I trust you and I have no reason to surrender, or I don’t and surrendering will only put more at risk. I think I would rather put my trust in our defences.”

“My lady,” Garth began, trying to put to words just how little similar defences had done to slow Lord America up to then. “I-”

“No, that’s fair,” Steve said. “Would you mind taking a step back?”

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

“Just two or three steps back,” Steve said, speaking politely, like he was trying to get past someone in a narrow corridor.

Befuddled, Melissa did as asked, almost disappearing into the shadows of the keep hall. She, along with those outside, watched as Steve took a few steps back of his own. Thankfully the path was dirt, and it had not rained recently giving him plenty of grip. He let out a breath, took the short running start, and leaped over the narrow moat.

Lady Meadows shrank back as he landed in the open door of the keep, blocking out the light behind him. It wasn’t an interior hallway but another defensive position, arrow slits in the walls and murder holes above, but the point was moot when his men had the lord of the castle with them outside and the lady was standing in there with him. There was a guard to his left, once hidden behind the drawbridge, and he raised his mace as if to attack. Steve turned slowly to glance at him, and the mace went down.

“I will accept your surrender now,” he told the lady. He looked about for a mechanism that would lower the bridge, but found none.

Melissa nodded jerkily. “Ye- what are you terms?”

“We’ll take control of the castle and all of its war material, the latter of which will be confiscated or destroyed. You’ll make no attempt to ambush or resist my forces, and will obey all reasonable commands,” Steve said. “In return, you and your people will not be harmed, we will not make unreasonable demands of your House, and…that’s about it.”

“That’s it?” Melissa asked, frowning at him. At this distance, he could see she had blue eyes a shade colder than Naerys’, and flax blonde hair.

“That’s it,” Steve confirmed. “I’m here for the war, not to destroy your lives.”

“Then…Grassfield Keep is yours,” Lady Meadows said, raising her voice as if to be heard. She gave him a hard look. “If so much as a scullery maid is harmed, I will treat your word as broken.”

Steve pursed his lips. “If a scullery maid is harmed, the one responsible will be punished the same as if they had harmed a noble.”

Melissa gave a doubtful hmm, and nodded to the guard beside him. He reached gingerly past Steve for the door, closing it and sliding a flush bolt into place. A moment later, a winch began to turn, out of sight but not earshot, and the drawbridge started to lower with a creak of ropes and wood. Light spilled into the hall, and the moment it fell completely, Arland was already leading his squad over it, Robin and Ren close behind him. Even only two abreast, the entrance to the keep quickly became rather crowded.

That didn’t stop Garth from stepping his way through to get to his wife. Naerys was close behind, though whether that was to stay at his side or to also reach his wife, Steve couldn’t say.

“Husband,” Melissa said as they reached her. “I have surrendered the castle.”

“You did right, Mel,” Garth said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It was over when I lost the walls.”

Steve gave a small cough, drawing their attention. “Maybe we should take this elsewhere.”

They seemed to remember they were still standing under murder holes with enemy troops for company.

“Yes, of course,” Garth said. “Ser Rogers, would you care to join me in my solar, that we might discuss your demands?”

“Sure,” Steve said, before glancing back. “Ren, find Walt and tell him what happened here. I want another squad to join us in here to conduct a search. Standard orders.”

“Yes ser,” Ren said, bowing her head. She looked a touch off, given that she lacked the white star banner that she usually carried, but she was quick to jog back across the drawbridge and out of sight.

Garth’s expression grew strained at the reminder that he was no longer in control of his own keep, but he seemed to seek refuge in the guise of a welcoming host. “If you would follow me?” he asked, even as he offered his arm to Melissa.

Naerys was reaching for his arm even as he offered it, and the two couples led the way into the keep interior. The hall did not link up to any other, instead leading to a hollow inside the keep. It looked to be a pleasant garden, filled with small trees and flowers of all kinds, but it was clear its first and true purpose was to be a killing ground for any intruder who made it through the gate and drawbridge.

“I will pass word that you and yours are not to be resisted,” Lord Meadows said once they were all within, leaving the hall behind. Beside him, Melissa’s gaze had narrowed in on where Naerys held Steve’s arm. She visibly bit her lip as she met Naerys’ eyes, attempting to communicate by eyebrows alone.

“Sounds swell,” Steve said, deliberately ignoring the byplay. “I’d hate for there to be an accident.”

Robin was pulling his bow from his shoulder even as Steve registered the distant flapping of wings, and then put arrow to string, aiming upwards. The raven above was distant, but still within the reach of someone of his skill.

“Robin,” Steve said, tone commanding.

The squire stopped, but still tracked the raven. “Ser?”

“Don’t waste the arrow,” Steve said. “You’d have to be almost as good as Fletcher Dick to make that shot. The message is gone.”

For a moment, he hesitated, but then slowly eased his draw. “Sorry ser.” The arrow went back to his quiver, and the bow back over his shoulder.

“I gave no order for a message to be sent,” Melissa said, quick to assure him. She and her husband were slightly pale. “On the Seven, I do not know who sent it or what it read.”

There was a moment of quiet for them to stew in. “What’s done is done,” Steve said at length. “You can’t be blamed for loyal retainers. That will be the last incident.”

“Of course,” Garth said. “By your leave, I will see to such now.”

Steve nodded, and Garth hurried over to a grate in the wall to the side of the passage they had just exited. He tapped on it twice, and a metal plate was pulled aside, a pair of eyes peering through. Garth began to give orders of surrender, and Steve listened with half an ear, though his attention was elsewhere.

“Naen- Naerys,” Melissa was saying. “How long has it been? Twelve years? You look- well.”

“Thirteen. As do you,” Naerys said. She looked over to where Garth was giving orders. “You seem to have found the match you hoped for.”

“Just as you seem to have found a gallant knight,” Melissa said, and it had the tone of old gossip revealed.

Naerys glanced to Steve with a look that was not quite panicked, and he realised that he had an opportunity here.

“Say, you knew Naerys when she was young,” he began.

“I would appreciate the chance to reconnect with my old friend, Steve,” Naerys said. She tried to poke him, but was stymied by the plate armour he wore. She settled for a fixed smile, valiantly ignoring the growing smirk on Steve’s face, and the hidden amusement on Melissa’s. “Perhaps we might take a walk?”

“Take all the time you need,” Steve said. He would have given her a hug, but again, armour. “I’ll come find you after I sort things out with Lord Meadows.”

The smile she gave him was more sincere now, and she tapped her thumb on the inside of his elbow in place of a squeeze, before trading his arm for Melissa’s. “We won’t leave the keep.”

“A moment,” Melissa said, fighting against Naerys’ attempts to drag her off. “Will you not take a guard?” She gave Steve a look of disapproval. “Will you not give her one?”

“Naerys can defend herself,” Steve said.

“Even so,” Melissa said.

“If Naerys were to be endangered, I would not have the luxury of a measured response,” Steve said, his words mild for all the violence they promised. “You did promise no more incidents, right?”

“Of course,” Melissa said, repeating her husband’s words. Her throat bobbed as she fought a swallow.

“Then enjoy your catch up,” Steve said. “You can tell me all the embarrassing stories she doesn’t swear you to secrecy on later.”

That was the last straw, and Naerys dragged her oldest friend off, the pair already putting their heads together, arm in arm. He watched them go, pleased for her good fortune.

Garth returned, and joined him in watching them. “The Seven weave strange paths,” he observed, and Steve hummed an agreement. “Would you care to join me in my solar?”

The second squad that Steve had called for was jogging across the bridge and into the keep, Henry at their head. “Lead the way,” he said. He paused only to give Arland and Henry their final orders, and then he was following Garth across the garden and towards one of the identical doors set into the inner walls, gesturing for Robin to follow. The morning was almost over, but it was a morning well spent.

X

The solar was well appointed, even if its shelves and walls were split between books and weapons. Shelves and racks were of dark lacquered wood, a large variety of flowers carved into them, and an old but thick carpet covered the floor. Garth Meadows sat behind his desk, at first unsure if Steve would expect the spot, but gracious in his wine service once Steve took the chair across from it. The maester, a middle aged man who had not been named, stood behind and to the side of the desk, while Robin stood at Steve’s shoulder. A pair of servants waited to the side, unobtrusive after bringing the pewter goblets Garth had requested. Hammer and javelins had been handed off, and his shield sat against his chair.

Steve sat gingerly as he sipped at the Arbor Red he had been given. Even without his armour, he would have given the chair a second look before sitting in it. With it, he was doing more work than the chair to keep himself upright, lest he break the fancy thing beneath his weight. “Thank you for the drink,” he said politely.

“In another situation, I wouldn’t have offered, but in that case I’d likely not have the choice either,” Garth said, taking a less measured sip of his own. Given his day so far, it was understandable.

“I’m not here because I don’t like you,” Steve said. “I’m here because I don’t like Aerys.”

“‘Like’ seems a fair understatement,” Garth said, though his tone was one of careful observation.

“It is what it is,” Steve said. “I’m fighting for justice; I’m not about to do the wrong thing in pursuit of that.”

“Yet you’ve joined the rebels?” Garth said, failing to hide a disbelieving note. “They betrayed their oaths.”

“Oaths come second to doing what is right,” Steve said firmly.

Garth’s goblet was set aside as the man leaned in, suddenly intent. “What has led you to view the rebel cause as just? What story were you told?”

Steve couldn’t help but raise a brow. “The king turned guests into hostages.”

“Did you see evidence they were hostages?” Garth pressed. “Or did they simply come to you and ask for your help in escaping? A group riding to retrieve stolen guests might look very similar to one riding after escaped hostages in the right light. If a faction wanted to stir justification for rebellion…”

“I infiltrated the Red Keep and the Gold Cloaks defending it fired upon us unprovoked as we left,” Steve said flatly. He kept suspicions of the machinations of the third party to himself. “St- Lord Stannis lost his leg to them. Aerys admitted they were hostages when Lord Stark, Tully, and Arryn confronted him at King’s Landing.”

Garth sat back in his chair. “You infiltrated the Red Keep.”

He was not the only one to lack belief, the maester behind him unable to hide a sceptical expression on his pale face.

Their belief didn’t matter. “Not important. Don’t forget that Aerys abducted Lyanna Stark and killed the men guarding her because she didn’t agree to come to him as a guest. Not the sort of thing to make you trust in his hospitality.”

“I had not heard that claim,” Garth said diplomatically.

“He also threatened to kill her unless I killed Barristan Selmy,” Steve added pointedly. “You can see why I took him with me when we rode away after that.”

The Lord of Grassfield Keep regarded him closely for a moment. “You understand I cannot take you at your word,” he said at last.

Steve shrugged. “I can understand fighting for your liege lord, even if I think you’ve both chosen the wrong cause. I’m not going to burn your house down for it though.”

Garth huffed a short laugh as they looped back to the start of their conversation. “Well, I appreciate your generosity.” He hesitated. “Might I hope this will mean that your men will not have the run of my keep?”

“My men will have whatever access they need to carry out their tasks,” Steve said firmly. “But they won’t give you trouble. If there’s a complaint, I will hear it fairly. He wasn’t one of mine, but I’ve already seen one rapist hanged on this campaign.”

“You have the time to carry out judgements in the lands you raided?” Garth said, taking up his goblet again.

One of the servants to the side, the one holding a jug, tilted their head to see if the goblet was in need of refilling, and his lord held his goblet out for him. The pouring of wine was the only sound in the office as Steve took the moment to think.

“You sent a force to clear out some bandits,” Steve said.

Garth paused mid drink. “Yes. Don’t tell me-”

“Sorry,” Steve said, not at all sorry. “We caught them after they had dealt with the bandits and left the survivors without weapons or shoes.”

“I sent another two hundred and fifty men to deal with those bandits,” Garth said, annoyed, before he sighed. “Well, at least the bandits were killed. How does that relate to the raper?”

“He was one of them,” Steve said. “I’ve made it clear to my men what my stance on that sort of thing is. Your people won’t have any trouble from them.”

“Your deeds before my gate gave a hint to your character, but that is still reassuring,” Garth said. He sighed, draining his goblet anew. He did not hold it out to be refilled. “Now, we come to the painful part of things.”

“Painful?” Steve asked. He held his tongue rather than comment on the swelling beginning at the side of the man’s head. He thought the painful part was already over.

“Your demands,” Garth said, trying to make light of it.

“I’ve already given them?” Steve said. “Your war material will be destroyed or confiscated, and you won’t attempt to abuse my goodwill by taking arms against me until we meet again.”

“I am your captive,” Garth said, as if reminding him. “You hold my keep.”

“Oh, right,” Steve said, realising what he was getting at. “Usually Naerys lets me know about these things, but I guess I’m supposed to ask for a ransom here.”

“The point is rather moot,” Garth said slowly, “given your control of my castle and vaults.”

“I’m not going to rob you, Meadows,” Steve said, unable to hide his amusement at the thought. The image of himself in full regalia, but lurking in the shadows of an alley waiting to mug someone, popped into his head.

“It’s hardly robbery,” Garth said. “It is the way of things.” He searched for the words to explain it better, but found himself stymied by the realisation that he was arguing against his own interests.

“If you’d done something to deserve it, maybe,” Steve said. Another Reach lord came to mind, one that he wouldn’t mind taking for all he was worth.

“It is still expected,” Garth said. “With my surrender came my word not to take advantage of you,” he added, like Steve was the unreasonable one.

Robin couldn’t quite hide a snicker as Steve threw his hands up, even as the maester gave Garth a side eye. “What would you suggest?” he asked.

Garth couldn’t help but squint at him, but only for a moment. “You are asking me how much I ought to pay for my own ransom?”

“We don’t have this ransom business back home,” Steve said. “I don’t want to pull Naerys away from her catch up with your wife, either.”

“Well,” Garth said, visibly turning the thought over. “Then for my own pride, I must offer one thousand gold dragons.”

“That’s a bit more than I was going to ask for,” Steve said.

Garth smiled, gesturing vaguely around his office. “My House may not have the riches of House Caswell, but we do not lack for wealth. And it is still much less than a less chivalrous man might have claimed from my vaults,” he added.

“Guess I’ll have to accept it then,” Steve said, putting a hint of ‘aw shucks’ into his voice.

“One thousand dragons is a respectable amount,” Garth said, shrugging. “And frankly, for word to spread that I had paid little or nothing would reflect on me, and imply certain things I would rather not have implied.”

“I’d hate to besmirch your good name,” Steve said, earnest as apple pie. “Is there a formal process…?”

Garth beckoned to the maester, and the man came forward, already reaching for a quill resting in an inkpot and a ready piece of parchment. “A signed and sealed declaration will suffice.”

“Robin,” Steve said, “in Brooklyn’s left saddlebag, tucked into my suit belt pouch, there’s my seal. Grab it for me?”

Robin was quick to hustle off, leaving Steve alone in the office. He shifted carefully, rebalancing how he supported himself in the chair. The scratch of quill on parchment pushed away the silence.

“This would not be your first ransom, surely?” Garth asked, more to fill the air than anything.

“No,” Steve said, “but it is for this campaign, and at Harrenhal it was much less formal. Naerys took care of it anyway.”

“I see,” Garth said. His mood seemed to have risen, despite being about to give out one thousand gold dragons, and he gestured for his goblet to be refilled.

Steve watched as the maester scribbled away with his quill. “Say, maester,” he said, tone one of idle curiosity, “how do you train your ravens to send messages like they do?”

The quill stilled, but only for a moment. “It is an art carefully studied, my lord,” the maester said, not glancing up. “Since it was first discovered and refined into a useful practice by the Citadel.”

“And it’s not a daisy chain? One raven can fly all the way across Westeros?”

“That is correct,” the maester said. “Though it is a rare bird that can be used for more than one destination, they can fly from Oldtown to the Wall, if needed.” Pride was clear in his voice.

“Gosh,” Steve said, putting on his impressed yokel face. “How many ravens can you keep at a time?”

“Eighty three,” the maester boasted.

“So you could contact eighty three castles easy as letting a bird fly?” Steve asked. “That sure is something.”

“Some important castles have more than one raven trained to them,” the maester said, jotting down the last of the details.

“I imagine Highgarden would be one of them, huh,” Steve said.

The maester froze, slowly looking up and to his lord. Garth’s mien was guarded, giving nothing away. “It is a common practice,” he said.

“How many do you have?” Steve asked, all casualness gone.

“One more,” he said, wetting his lips.

“Bring it here, would you?” Steve said. It wasn’t a request.

He was already moving before thinking to check with Lord Meadows, and was gone as soon as he received a small nod.

“Meadows,” Steve said, “you’re going to write a message to Mace Tyrell. You’re going to tell him that the force that took your castle left after destroying your war materials, heading east.”

“No one would believe you just left after taking a castle of Grassfield Keep’s strength,” Garth said.

“Say what you need to to convince him,” Steve said with a shrug. The chair creaked ominously under him.

“I will do what I can,” Garth said, though it was clear he was doubtful.

Steve watched as he took up the quill the maester had used and retrieved a small slip of parchment from a stack of them, pinned by a piece of quartz. It seemed the perfect size to be carried by a raven, and he began to scratch out a message.

‘Mace, mixed news. Force of Steve Rogers, L. America departed east after taking keep. 100 strong. Supplies destroyed/stolen. No pillaging, ransom accepted. Casualties low on both sides. SR high threat. Trüth, sworn by the blood we share. Garth.’

Garth looked up to see his response and was met by a brow raised in silent question. “If I don’t include useful information it certainly won’t be believed,” he said.

“I suppose you’re right,” Steve said, as if that was the price he would have to pay for his ruse. He pretended not to notice the two errant dots of ink above the word ‘truth’ in the message, innocent mistakes that they of course were. He’d seen worse hidden messages done with more time.

Silence returned, but this time there was no attempt to fill it. The maester was first to return, a large raven on his shoulder, and he dithered for a moment before handing it off to the second servant, both of them doing their best impression of church mice. The man checked the message his lord had written, taking a stamplike device and rocking it over the ink, before rolling it up and readying it to be affixed to the raven’s leg. He took up the raven again and made to leave, only to pause and look between the two lords, unsure.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“Ravens are typically dispatched from the rookery,” the maester said.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t try to pull a fast one on me,” Steve said. “All the same, I think you can set him loose through that window there,” he said, nodding towards the stained glass windows that let light into the room.

Garth was quick to give the order, and the windows were opened, the bird set loose. It gave a caw as it did, sounding like laughter. Robin chose that moment to return, clearly having run but still breathing easily, holding the seal that Steve had acquired in Braavos in his hand.

Paperwork was quick to be done, the maester hurriedly writing out a second copy, and both lords signed and sealed the agreement of the ransom.

“No point in wasting time,” Steve said, pretending not to notice the easing nerves of Garth and his still unnamed maester. “We’ll get this gold transferred and then see what Melissa and Naerys are up to.”

“A fine idea, America,” Garth said. He stood, a new energy to him. “Mel has spoken of your - Lady Naerys in the past, and I must admit to some eagerness to meet her.”

Steve gave Robin a wink, unseen by others as they left the room, and the kid’s lips twitched as he suppressed a smirk. The squire slipped away as Steve followed Garth towards the keep vault. There was coin to hand over.

It wasn’t his favourite part of things, even if Bucky would probably slap him upside the head for admitting it, but there was still something about seeing piles of gold coins gathered up for you. Truly, campaigning and raiding was a hard life.

X

Lord America’s company made a point of making themselves comfortable in Grassfield Keep. Respectfully of course, but comfortable all the same. Baths were made available to those who wished to partake, and the white star banner was retrieved from outside the gates to be displayed above the Keep. The squire and the blond ward (the son, some whispered) of the formidable knight could be seen playing with an ugly white dog and Lord Meadows’ own sons, for all the world looking more like visiting allies than occupiers, and it did much for setting the residents at ease after the unnaturally gentle behaviour left them anxious and unsure. Seeing the lady of the castle gossiping and teasing with the lady of the captain only added to the reassurance that there was no headsman’s axe waiting to drop. By all appearances, it seemed that the invaders, well behaved as they were, were settling in to stay. Neat and orderly lines of tents were erected in the outer yard, and the castle guardsmen were even permitted to assist in the watch on the walls, bound by their lord’s word and their own bewilderment. A new normal threatened, even as war materials and foodstuffs were set aside in preparation for destruction, and castle mounts were enveloped by the large herd that came with the newcomers, swelling it even further.

When Lord Meadows put on a feast that night, Ser Rogers proved himself a true lord even when deep in his cups, sharing wine with the knights that he had triumphed over in one breath and speaking gallantly with his paramour and the wife of his host the next. Laughter and good cheer was not uncommon, helped on by the absurdity that was a castle fallen without deaths. It was a surreal mood that descended over the castle as the night came to an end, and many were counting their blessings that the white star banner was carried by a man such as it was.

Between the festivities and the gratitude, few thought anything of the two young figures that they saw sneaking up to the ravenry, and those that did decided to look the other way. Lord America’s squire and the boy’s sweetheart sneaking away for a moment alone was none of their business, after all.

The next morning was a slow one, as Steve gave his people a rare opportunity to sleep to their heart’s content. Routine was a cruel mistress however, and it saw many of them rising with the sun regardless, gathering to exercise and train. They seemed far too cheerful for such a thing, though that was perhaps due to the generosity of their captain in the sharing of the ransom, fattening their already generous purses. The sight of Keladry going through her patterns in the morning light made several Reach knights with broken bones thankful that they had faced the blunt force of shield and hammer rather than the sharp lethality of the glaive.

Rather than join in on the training and good cheer as was his habit, however, Steve found himself invited to a private breakfast with the lord and lady of the castle. In the sole outfits they had that wasn’t suited to a soldier’s lot, he and Naerys followed the servant sent to guide them, not into the keep, but around the yard. At the rear of the castle grounds, in the north west corner, there was a small copse of trees. It was more akin to a curated section of forest than anything wild, carefully managed to be suitable for breakfasts like the one that awaited them, a table set out with a rich spread of fruits, four cushioned chairs around it. The tablecloth was embroidered with the same pattern of flowers Steve had noticed carved into the bookshelves of Garth’s office. The lord and his wife awaited them, though they had not yet begun to eat.

“Naerys,” Melissa said, greeting them warmly. She rose from where she had been speaking with Garth, giving an almost absent curtsey to Steve before taking her friend in a hug. “I worried I had driven you away last night.”

“Your betrayal will not be forgotten,” Naerys said, though her tone put lie to her words as she returned the hug.

Steve only smiled as he gave a nod to Meadows and took a seat, satisfied with the gossip he had been made privy to at the feast the night before.

“Don’t think to pretend you had no part in it,” Naerys said, seeing his smile as she sat beside him. She looked at him sternly. “You know I am spoiled for stories to share with Bucky, when we finally meet.”

He pretended to pinch his lips together, even as his smile didn’t fade a jot. Hearing about the time Naerys and Melissa had made off with and eaten an entire pot of jam only to be found by their fathers, stomachs swollen and groaning at the overindulgence, was more than worth it. And that was only one of the tales he had wheedled from her childhood friend.

“Please, enjoy the bounty of my orchards,” Garth said, gesturing to the table. There were all manner of fruits on it, from apples to oranges and even a few that Steve didn’t recognise. He turned a teasing smile on Melissa. “Perhaps it might distract my wife from sharing more childhood misdeeds.”

It did not, and the morning meandered on, stories being shared and a friendship was renewed as Steve demolished the fruit spread. It was not all one way either, as Naerys told their hosts of the time Steve had introduced her to Barristan the Bold, Arthur Dayne, Jaime Lannister, and Lord Crakehall as if she were their social superior. The sky was blue and the weather pleasant, but all good things had to come to an end.

“Despite the circumstance,” Melissa said, as she recovered from her giggles, “I am glad to have had this chance, Naerys. I feared I would never see you again.”

“I felt the same,” Naerys said. “Even after Steve swept me away from Sharp Point, I had only faint hope.”

“Then it is good that we will have some time to reconnect,” Melissa said with a firm nod. Naerys’ good humour faded at this, and Melissa noticed, her own fading in turn. Apprehension grew in her pale blue eyes. “What?”

“After the war is over, I’ll make sure you have the chance to catch up,” Steve promised.

“What do you mean to say, Lord America?” Garth said, leaning forward with a frown.

As if it had been planned, a storm of ravens erupted from one of the towers, the cawing of the flock and the flapping of their wings drowning out any possibility of conversation. They scattered in all directions, and when they were gone, Garth turned to Steve with an unspoken demand for answers in his eyes.

“Someone in your employ cunningly managed to set all your ravens loose, with a short warning even,” Steve said. “Brave move. Made sure that the occupiers wouldn’t be able to send false messages, and that your neighbours would know to bunker down with that Lord America fellow on the prowl, threatening their holdfasts.”

“Someone - you had this done,” Garth said. “Why? You have my oath.”

“Well, we’re about to leave, and I don’t want to make it easy for you to spread the word.”

“You’re what?” Garth said. Melissa was dismayed, looking to Naerys, who looked down at her lap.

“We’re heading east, today,” Steve said, as if he didn’t know what Garth was confused about. “I don’t want to be pinned in here by whoever comes to relieve you.”

Garth didn’t splutter, but it was a near thing. “You knew that- that Highgarden would see through the message.”

“I knew,” Steve said, nodding, leaving his answer ambiguous.

Lord Meadows took his meaning all the same, and it was only Lord America’s proven chivalry that kept him from fearing for consequences to his attempted duplicity. “I did what I must.”

“I know that you’re obliged to do right by your people and your lord,” Steve said, unconcerned. “This way I get what I want without having to put you in a bad position.” He took another bite of an apple.

“How kind,” Garth said, voice dry even as he began to realise how he had been played. He glanced at his wife. “We had hoped- well.”

“I know,” Steve said, “and I’m not happy to do this, but I can’t change the plan to suit my own desires.”

“You always intended this,” Melissa said, glancing between her ‘guests’. Rather than depress her mood further, it seemed to lift her. “You were never going to linger here.”

“We weren’t,” Steve confirmed.

“Again, you tell me you plan to ride east, that you bluffed me earlier,” Garth said, “but still I cannot tell if you mean to do so.” He wore a frustrated look, though it was shot through with amusement.

“All warfare is based on deception,” Steve said, shrugging. “I figure you’ll find a way to get a message out, but even then, you can’t say for sure.” He held his hands out, palms up, and weighed one against the other. “Bluff? Double bluff? A lie both times?” He smiled, giving nothing away.

Garth and Melissa shared a look full of meaning, showing that despite the barbarity of arranged marriages, they could still sometimes come to work.

“Whatever it is,” Garth said, apparently coming to a silent agreement with Melissa, “I will hold you to your promise. And should the rebellion fail, Melissa could surely use a handmaiden that has known her since childhood.”

Steve thought that if the rebellion failed, he would have to assassinate Aerys to prevent him retaliating against those close to him, but kept it to himself. “That’s swell of you,” he said. “I’ll make sure Melissa is sat with Naerys at the victory feast when we take the Red Keep.”

They laughed, but it was clear they were judging his offer and finding it more possible than they would perhaps have expected. Talk of departure was pushed to the side, as the ladies tried to make the most of what time they had left, almost aggressively enjoying themselves. Steve’s singing ability was ratted out, and he retaliated with Naerys’ way of hiding her own, but always lurking was the knowledge that soon they would leave. Even tucked away in the forested corner of the castle the company preparations could not be ignored, and in time, they had to say their goodbyes.

Naerys was the last out the gates, propped up for their departure, and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. She wore a smile all the same, buoyed by the joy of a reunion unlooked for, and Steve startled a laugh from her when he took her by the waist and plucked her from her saddle to place her before himself in his own, pressing his lips to her hair. The bastard girl from the poor Crownlands House leaned back into her lordly foreign paramour, reassured by the knowledge that she would meet her childhood friend again.

The white star banner turned east, their job well done. In their wake they left a long trail of destroyed supply dumps, sacked holdfasts, and worried nobles. Word was well and truly out amongst the Reach lords of Lord America’s coming, and their muster hastened, necessity driving them. They would not let the challenge of Grassfield Keep’s taking go unanswered.

They could not know that Steve was no longer the only enemy force in their lands, but they soon would.

X X X

East they rode, hard and with heavy saddlebags. They had not destroyed as much as usual at Grassfield, choosing instead to commandeer what supplies they could, focusing on what might be useful for an army on the march. With their herd of horses now over three hundred strong, they were able to spread their honestly won gains around without defeating the purpose of having spare mounts in the first place, even with the swift pace they set. Even so, without Toby to watch over and intuit when they were being pushed too hard, the excess weight would have made their pace untenable. As it was, they were fortunate that most lords in the region seemed to have taken the raven from ‘Lord Meadows’ seriously, bunkering down for assaults that would never come.

The roads and the countryside felt eerily deserted as the company rode for their destination, ill defined as it was. It was difficult to arrange a meeting on the march without doing so prior, or with the magic of radio waves, but they had a rough idea, and that would hopefully be enough. They passed by the supply camp at the headwaters of the Blueburn, on the north side of the river this time, and found a mess of a replacement. Rather than neatly ordered rows of supplies and manned watchtowers, a messy cluster of crates and barrels had grown between the scorched remains and the piers on the river, swathes of canvas draped over it, but left unguarded. It seemed the deliveries had continued to a point, even in the absence of the camp that imposed order on the process. A narrow ford was found upstream, and Steve’s men helped themselves to the supplies, adding to their loot.

A day later, and two weeks after leaving Grassfield Keep behind, they found their goal, though it could be said that their goal first found them. Steve led the column as was his habit when Gerold and another man rode up to them at a canter, back from scouting. It was midmorning, and a day that could almost be called warm.

“Trouble?” he asked, breaking off from his lesson to Robin and Ren.

“Could be, ser,” Gerold said, the grimace he wore pulling at the scar along his jaw. “Group of riders waiting in the lee of a hill. Looks like they’re waiting for someone.” He and his companion - Jakob, one of the few Northmen in the company - fell in beside him.

“How many?”

“Eight, that we saw,” Gerold said. “No banner.”

“They see you?”

“We were off the road when we saw them,” Jakob said, voice gravelly for his slender frame. “I say they know we’re coming. No point waiting and hiding otherwise.”

When he had started training them, Walt had made it clear that he expected their scouts to do more than simply ride ahead out in the open when they set out, and it had paid off time and again. Steve was glad to see discipline being maintained even as they made their triumphant escape.

“Eight riders aren’t going to ambush one hundred,” Gerold said, his tone making it clear they had already argued this on their return. “They’d need two of the Captain for that.”

“What was the land like?” Steve asked, before they could get into it. Eight wouldn’t ambush one hundred, but they could certainly act as spotters.

“Same as it was on the south side,” Jakob said, chewing his lip. “Room to hide, but not to fight.”

Steve considered for a moment. “Robin, you got all that?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes ser,” Robin said.

“Pass it on to Keladry, and let him know I’m riding ahead to take a look,” Steve said. “Stick with him after. Ren, you and the banner stay with the column.”

Almost identical expressions of dissatisfaction crossed their faces, but there was no thought to argue, and then Robin was wheeling his mount around to do as ordered.

“Squad, on me!” Steve called, already nudging Brooklyn forwards. Fury would be better, but he wasn’t expecting a fight, and time was of the essence.

Arland, the knight who had become the de facto second in command of his squad, was the first to ride out of the column and up to join him. One of the twins, Artys, was at his side, and a quick headcount ensured the other eleven were right behind them.

“Possible ambush ahead,” Steve told them, even as they began to canter away from the column. “Small squad was spotted, but they might be the eyes for a larger one. We’ll deal with it either way.”

There were no questions and no anxiety over riding away from the rest of their company into a possible ambush, not with the Captain leading them. Steve kept his suspicions as to the origins of the group to himself. There was no need to be incautious, not now.

Half an hour down the road, they found the group of riders that Gerold and Jakob had spotted. Like the two men, they had gone through the same browbeating and haranguing from Walt over what made a skilled outrider, and it was not on the road that they made their final approach. Dismounted, they crawled up to the ridge of another nearby hill, squinting over at the group waiting for them. They did not seem to be preparing for any sort of fight; some had dismounted to stretch their legs while one was even laying down for a nap. Steve eased as he saw one figure in particular.

“They’re not enemies,” he said to his men, even as he got to his feet. “Let’s go say hello.”

“You can tell from here?” one of his men, Roger, asked. He was one of those who had taken best to the sling, for all he had been a stout butcher’s assistant before joining Steve.

“Look at the man second from the left. His armour,” Steve said.

Roger squinted, then saw what he meant. “Ah.”

With most of their attention on the road, the approach of fourteen mounted men was sighted far later than they were comfortable with, as evidenced by the startled oath and warning that went up when they were a stone’s throw away. One of them kicked the napping man in the foot. It was likely only their steady approach that prevented weapons from being drawn, at least until they noticed the star on his chest plate. That was when they began to form up into something approaching a reception.

“Fellas,” Steve said as he and his men came to a stop before them. “What brings you out this way?”

“Lord America,” the apparent leader said. His bearing said he was a knight, and his smooth voice was at odds with his blocky face. “You do, my lord.” They had recovered from the surprise of finding strangers at their rear.

“How’d you know we were coming?” Steve said, making small talk like they weren’t in enemy territory. By the looks the unfamiliar soldiers were giving him, they weren’t quite sure what to make of him.

“We had men watching the supply site that you razed,” the knight said.

Steve held back a small frown. Whoever had been watching had gone unseen, but that was the price to pay when prioritising speed over stealth.

“They brought word when you were seen looting the place. Again.”

The small patrol may have been made up of unfamiliar figures, but there was one amongst them that he knew. “Zep,” Steve said, turning to the speaker. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Ser,” Zep said, pretending to tug the forelock his short shaved head didn’t have. “Good to have you back.”

“No trouble on your way?” Steve asked.

“Just Ser Yorick complaining about missing the fun,” Zep said, craggy face breaking out in a grin. “Right sour he was.”

“I’ll make it up to him,” Steve said, ignoring the looks the others were giving them. “Someone had to make contact with Robert.”

“We have been sent out to find you,” the knight said, trying to draw the conversation back on track. “I am Ser Wilmer.”

“The rest of my men aren’t far behind,” Steve said. “We can ride on when they catch up.”

“You rode ahead without them?” Wilmer asked, puzzled.

“My scouts saw you, so I had to check for an ambush,” Steve said. “Oh, Zep, we received a ransom from Lord Meadows. Tell your squad to see Naerys for their share.”

Zep bowed his head, a pleased smile revealing a missing canine.

A flurry of questions were clear across Wilmer’s face, but he managed to limit himself to one. “Your assault on Grassfield Keep was successful then?”

It seemed Yorick had spread word of his intentions. “Yeah, we had some luck.”

Another of his men, Harwin, gave a deliberate cough. “Luck, ser.” His tone was dry.

Steve rolled his eyes at the tall Vale knight. “Luck, and teamwork.”

The men seemed to take personal offence at the description, and the wait was passed with the tale of Grassfield Keep’s taking, though Steve had to correct them on a few points. The moat had only been ten feet across, not twenty.

It did not take long for the rest of the company to catch up, and though the size of their herd drew some incredulous looks - though perhaps it was their good behaviour in the absence of visible control - they were delayed only for a moment as word was passed as to the situation. Steve pretended not to hear Naerys and Walt giving orders sharp as any general, ensuring they would look properly impressive before they made the final approach to their destination. The sun shone overhead as they continued east, and it was still early afternoon when they crested a hill to see it before them. Not a place but a procession, Steve took it in with a glance, counting the banners and the wagons and the long snaking mass of soldiers. This was no small raiding party, no force meant to trick and harass. This was an army.

The men of the Stormlands had come to the Reach.

X

“Steve!” came the bellow from Lord Robert Baratheon. He rode at the head of his men, a coterie of lords and knights with him, yellow black stag flying proudly above them.

“Robert,” Steve called back, as Brooklyn slowed beneath him. “You look well.”

“Of course I’m bloody well,” Robert said, grinning widely. “Join us. Your man Yorick has been telling us about your adventures, but I want to hear it from you.”

He had figured something like this might happen, and Keladry was already leading the bulk of his people off the stretch of road they were on and into a nearby meadow. They had passed through this area before, during their hunt for the bandit hunters, even if they hadn’t taken this road specifically. The small crowd around Robert hastily reorganised itself around him to make room for Steve at their lord’s side, and he tried not to side eye the quick politicking in action as he joined them. Robin slipped into place beside Bryn behind them, even as Wilmer received a distracted nod of thanks from Robert, sent on his way.

“Come on then,” Robert said. If he wasn’t clad in strong plate embossed with stags rampant, hammer harnessed at his back, he would have seemed a boy almost bouncing with eagerness. “How did your business at Grassfield Keep fare?”

“Zero casualties,” Steve said. “We took the castle and let word slip out that we were going to bunker up there. Should be a force coming to relieve them as we speak.”

Robert’s already joyous expression took on a hint of vindictive glee as he listened. “Just in time to run face first into a good Stormlands pounding,” he said, smacking a gauntleted fist into his palm.

He was not the only one to find the idea appealing. Of the dozen or so lords in the group, most shared his enthusiasm, trading jokes and boasts. Steve recognised a few of them from his time at Storm’s End, though not by name.

“That’s the idea,” he said. “They think I lied about returning east, so when they see I didn’t raid deeper, bunkering down should be the next possibility.”

Robert couldn’t help but chuckle, full of such cheer that one might be forgiven for thinking that Steve had brought news of sacking Highgarden itself. “If we weren’t on the march, this would call for a celebration.”

“But with your appetite, we’d then we’d lack the drink for our celebration after the battle,” one lord quipped.

“The Reachmen will have some; we’ll just take theirs,” another said. This one had a greataxe sitting in a holster on his mount, its head polished to a silver shine.

“You’re damned right,” Robert said to both of them, before turning back to Steve. “But that’s the result, I want to know how it happened.”

Faintly, Steve heard Robin snigger, and mentally assigned an extra set of reps to him once they made camp. “Well. I needed to cause a diversion, and I figured the best way to do that was something too audacious to be considered a diversion…”

The tale started with audacity and only grew, as did the incredulity of his audience. Still, no one wanted to be the first to call bullroar, not when their liege lord was listening intently without any doubt, not even at the part about lifting up the portcullis. He did his best to keep it as matter of fact as he could, closer to a report than a story, but he already knew it would spread throughout the army like a rash before the week was out.

Robert gave a moody sigh as the tale came to an end. “Here I’ve had my arse parked in a saddle, and you’ve been haring off across the Reach.”

“More the hound than the hare, I think,” a lord said, scratching at stubble growing on his head.

An amused snort was his answer, but then Robert’s countenance darkened. “Gods, six months since Lyanna was snatched by that wretch and still my hammer is dry.”

“Has there been any word?” Steve asked.

“From Aerys?” Robert asked, glancing at him with a pointed look. “Not a chirp.”

“Rumours aplenty,” a man with a thick red beard said. “Aerys is on his deathbed. Aerys quarrels with his son. Aerys is to lead an army into the field.”

“That’s war, I suppose,” Steve said. He rubbed at his cheek. He was due for a shave, according to Naerys.

“Speaking of rumours,” one of the older men said, hair well salted. “We heard tell you had time to dispense justice during your raiding.” His tone was more curious than anything, though his blue eyes were watchful.

“I have very strong opinions on rape and civilian casualties in warfare,” Steve said flatly. Something about it had spines straightening. “Anyone guilty of such things in my presence will be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

“A difficult thing to police in war,” the same man said. He had clearly not missed the word choice of ‘anyone’.

“Maybe,” Steve said, tone making his thoughts on it clear. “But justice is what separates us from animals.”

Robert gave a grunt of agreement, though the sudden ill mood that had him scowling at the road ahead cut off any further discussion that might have ensued. “Silveraxe,” he said, “how much more can we push the men each day?”

“Some,” Silveraxe, apparently so named for the shiny greataxe he had, said. “But not for more than five days before they need rest.”

Grumbles followed, but Robert did not give orders to do so. “These fucking Reachmen,” he muttered to himself. “We could be threatening King’s Landing by now.”

“That’s war, Lord Robert,” the older man who had questioned Steve said. “Sometimes it can be more complicated than cyvasse, others it is far too simple.”

“Tell me again of the last battle against Maelys,” Robert commanded, shedding his ill mood like a cloak. “How did the White Bull form his lines?”

Conversation turned to battle formations and orders given in a war long past, using terms that Steve was unfamiliar with but could puzzle out well enough. Other lords pitched in with this or that tidbit, adding tales from their fathers or uncles. The discussion began to grow beyond a single battle, lords arguing for this or that strategy, and it became clear that this was as much an informal council of war as it was a way to pass the time.

As it grew, however, another lord nudged his horse up beside Steve. Something about him was familiar, mostly around the grey-blue eyes and the dark hair.

“Lord America,” the man said. “I am Lord Beron Rogers.” There was a sword sheathed at one hip, but also a small warpick hanging at the other.

Steve grinned. “Lord Rogers. Mighty strong name you have there.”

He laughed. “I have to say I was curious, when word of your deeds at Harrenhal began to spread.”

“I’ll have to disappoint you,” Steve said, figuring where it was leading. “There won’t be any blood relation.”

“My thoughts as well, though I did have the maester check the family records,” Rogers said. “If I may ask, how is it that you are Ser Rogers but Lord America?”

“Rogers is the name my father gave me, America is the land I’m from,” Steve said. “It’s not quite like here, but calling me Lord America is…close enough.” A career in showbiz kept his expression neutral in the wake of his filthy lies.

“I see,” Beron said. “I wished to add my thanks. My mother was Branda Stark, and Lyanna is my cousin.”

Steve gave a slow nod. “I’m just here because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Even so,” Beron said. “I look forward to fighting with you.”

“Steve,” Robert barked, interrupting them. “You’d know best. Where would you put yourself?”

Steve ran the last few moments of half heard conversation through his head, and realised they had been arguing over where to place him in their order of battle. “You know my troops aren’t trained to contest enemy cavalry,” he warned.

“Yes, yes,” Robert said, waving him off. His horse snorted beneath him, as if sensing his impatience. “From what I’ve seen and been told they’d be best joining my outriders or reserved to harry the enemy after our victory.”

“Or to help screen our retreat,” the old lord added, voice pointed.

Robert’s lip curled in contempt at the very idea, but he nodded all the same. “Well?”

Steve didn’t really have to think about it. “Put me where you need the enemy line broken,” he said.

“With the infantry?” the man with the red beard asked, almost askance.

“Why not?” Steve asked.

“Nobles fight ahorse,” he said.

“Not the Dornish, or the Ironmen, or the Northmen,” the older man said.

The first grumbled through his red beard, but didn’t speak against the point.

Steve didn’t much care for the traditions or prestige of where in the formation one marched. This was war. There would be no taking captives or holding back no matter his position, not in open battle. All he could do was his best to ensure that it would end swiftly.

That meant breaking the enemy, and driving them before him. That, he could do.

“Once we know the field of battle,” Robert said slowly, “you’ll take one of the flanks. We’ll refuse the other, and you’ll push through to threaten an envelopment. They’ll be forced to commit their reserves, and then I’ll lead the counterblow to crush them.”

There were more than a few who glanced between Robert and Steve, doubts visible in their eyes, though all held their tongues. They knew when their lord sought advice, and when he gave orders, and the difference between them.

“A quick decision,” the older lord remarked. “You know what Harbert would counsel.”

Robert snorted. “If the field is ill, we’ll deal with it as it comes. The battle has been stacked for us as well as we can hope - they’re in a hurry, they won’t know we’re coming until it’s too late, and most of all, we’re fucking Storm lords.”

His words stirred his lords, and gauntlets crashed against breastplates as they growled their approval.

“The Reach lords made a mistake when they listened to that lizard squatting on the throne,” Robert said, almost spitting with fury. “They just don’t know it yet.”

“Hear hear!” Silveraxe said, and he was not the only one.

Steve could appreciate the spirit Robert stirred in his men, but it wasn’t for him. He watched, nodding when Robert met his eyes, further words unnecessary. He would do what needed to be done.

X

Travel as part of an army was very different to travel as a small raiding force, as Steve had known in general but came to be intimately familiar with over the next month and change. It took time for nineteen thousand men to break camp and march along roads only two wagons wide at best, time to ensure they weren’t walking into an ambush, time to set up camp when half the army still hadn’t arrived.

But then, travel time was just an opportunity for training in disguise.

“What do you do in the infantry?

You march, you march, you march”

Lord America had a certain reputation amongst the Stormlords and their men, even before he had joined their forces after raiding deep into the Reach. It was hard to avoid such a thing, when one made a point of defeating some of the greatest knights alive and were said to have defied the King to his face.

“What do you do when your pack has got your back as stiff as starch?

There's many a fall in the cavalry but never a fallen arch

What do you do in the infantry?

You march, you march, you march”

This, though. This was something else. Lords and soldiers watched as Lord America’s troops marched at double time along the column, despite the perfectly good abundance of horses they had available to them. There was almost something cruel about the cadence they were forced to sing in light of that.

“What do you do in the infantry?

You hike, you hike, you hike

What do you get in the infantry?

A left and right oblique

The son of a bitch in the cavalry is travellin' on a horse

And what do you do in the infantry?

You hike, you hike, you hike”

There were those amongst the lords that felt they ought to be insulted by the lyrics, especially when some smallfolk from the Vale was glaring at them as they sang it, but even they found the sympathy within to forgive them. They remembered their squiring days, and suddenly found that perhaps their duties had not been so harsh as they remembered.

“The hard way, the hard way

Sweat 'til you get there the hard way

What do you do in the infantry?

You win, you win, you win

What do you do for the victory?

You walk, you stand, you fight,

The rest of the army is ridin', ridin' through a triumphal arch

And what do you do in the infantry?

You march (two, three, four)

You march (two, three, four)

Oh, you march!”

Most of all though, they were struck by the way that despite the hellish march, Lord America still forced his men to go through all kinds of queer exercises, in full armour no less. Even if he himself outdid them clad in some of the heaviest armour they had seen, it was still a shock to see them going through such without complaining. It was only when seeing the more martial training they would do come the end of the day that the lords realised just how well honed they were by the fiendish whims of their captain.

There were some who watched and wondered what they might achieve if their own men were as well trained. Those thoughts lasted only until the lord considered the kind of coin they would demand to be put through such a thing, or that they too would likely have to subject themselves to it. A moment’s consideration told them that yes, the forces of their House were really more than adequate, and there was no need for such things.

Even if the way their liege lord was eyeing the whole spectacle with a speculative gleam in his eye made them nervous.

X

In time, however, Steve brought the extra training to an end. His soldiers were as fit as they could be, and the prospect of battle loomed near. The time to sweat was over. Soon it would be time to bleed.

Many holdfasts and minor keeps were passed, though they might as well have been deserted for all the activity to be seen from them. None wished to draw the attention of the passing army, and they could do little but watch it go by. Some few had ravens that could be seen winging into the lonely sky, but the word they carried would reach their foes far too late to make a difference now. Not when they had passed by Grassfield Keep two days past, and their outriders had come to grips with those of the enemy the day before. They knew where the enemy was, and the enemy knew where they were. It was a sober camp that night, the knowledge that battle would come tomorrow spreading rapidly through the army and sitting heavy upon them.

Steve found himself sitting alone by a small fire as the sun set. He and Naerys had just held each other in the privacy of their tent for long minutes, as he did his best to silently reassure her that he would return to her. She had wanted time alone afterwards, and he had given it to her, meaning to do a final check of his equipment, only for Robin to appear and confiscate it from him with a glare, absconding with it to their tent with the aid of Lyanna. She was anxious, even if she hid it well, and Steve gave her a nod, reassuring her as best he could. Even if the battle were to go terribly, he had spoken with Keladry and made what plans were necessary should the worst happen.

It wouldn’t. Not if he had anything to say about it, and he had quite a bit to say.

Left with only his shield, Steve was polishing it slowly, unable but to feel a hint of melancholy over the state of it. It had been ‘repaired’ back in the Vale, but still it couldn’t hold a candle to the day he first took it up, only for Peggy to shoot him.

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. She would have been happy for him, he knew.

Maybe one day he would find a way or be given a chance to fix it, even if his gut told him it was beyond mortal means in this strange world. Despite the quiet activity of last minute preparations going on throughout the camp, he was still given his space as he worked. This only made the approach of a small group more noticeable as they neared. It was not anyone he had expected.

Arland was at their head, the short but strong man in casual clothes like the rest. Harwin towered over him at his back, taller but not nearly as wide as Artys beside him, the single twin watching from under heavy brows. Hugo too was with them, bigger than them all, shoulders broader than an ox. Next to him and looking all the more out of place for it was the last of them, Ren standing with her jaw set, as if preparing for an argument.

Steve took in the members of his squad that stood before him, letting the moment stretch out. “You’ve got something on your minds,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Lor- se- Captain,” Arland said. “You’re standing in the front ranks tomorrow.”

“I am,” Steve said. He had not tried to hide it.

“You’re not taking your squad with you,” Arland said.

“I’m not.”

“Why?” Ren demanded. Given the grimace tugging at Arland’s mouth, the interruption hadn’t been planned.

“Because I haven’t trained you for it,” Steve said.

“We’re better trained than most of the men in this army,” Ren said.

“Most of the men in this army aren’t my responsibility,” Steve said.

“Captain,” Arland said, trying to bring things back on track. “The men beside you tomorrow do not know you. They will not know how you fight, what you’re capable of. You might as well be alone.” His green eyes bored into him, and left unsaid was that in the chaotic melee of battle, even a man like Steve could be hit by an unlucky blow, and an arrow or dagger through his eye was as lethal to him as it was any other.

“You have a request,” Steve said, cutting to the point. Those before him were some of the strongest or the best fighters in his squad, and there were few who would choose to go against Ren’s sheer stubbornness.

“Let us stand with you,” Arland said. “Let us guard you.”

Steve’s first instinct was to deny them, and it must have been clear on his face.

“We can do it,” Hugo said, certainty clear in his rumbling voice. “You know what you did for us.” The big man had come a long way from a small village in the Vale under threat from the mountain clansmen.

“I was told there would be a bonus for joining you,” Harwin said, plain face utterly serious, at least until Artys elbowed him in the ribs. “Ugh. Fine, I was told that the tale would get me many loose women.”

Artys elbowed him again. “You pulled Ortys and me out of spending the war lifting and carrying,” he said, blunt features serious. “On the ship against the pirates, we did something. I want to do more.”

“I’m not as strong as this lot. Can’t fight as well either,” Ren said. “But I’ll hold your banner high so everyone knows who it is breaking the Reach line.”

“This is not what I have trained you for,” Steve said. There was no hint of compromise in his voice. “I cannot tell you that I have made you ready for this.”

“Given everything, Captain,” Ren said, certainty clear in her voice, “I think right behind you might be the safest place in this battle.”

Harwin snorted, the others unable to help twitching lips, and even Steve was forced to fall back on his experience as an ill humoured instructor to keep his expression level.

The moment stretched out, his face giving no hint to his thoughts, and the tension and nerves in his people only grew. On and on the wait went, almost unbearable - until slowly, Steve gave a single nod. “Very well.”

Arland let out a breath, and Harwin made a fist in victory.

“However,” Steve said, paralysing them once more, “if you die, I will have you doing drills for eternity.”

They began to smile at his joke, freed from tension once more, but Steve wasn’t laughing.

“You think I’m joking?” he said. “I know a guy. You’ll be doing extra laps and double reps forever.”

Hugo shared a look with Ren, both of them unsure.

“Get out of here,” Steve said, before he lost the fight to keep his face straight. “Let Keladry know. Arland, tell the rest of the squad they’ll be on protection duty.”

“Aye Captain,” Arland said. “We won’t let you down.”

“I know.”

Steve watched as they turned and left him alone once more, purpose and determination clear in their strides. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. A wet nose against his hand broke him from his thoughts, and he looked down to see Dodger sitting beside him. His tail thumped in the dirt as he looked up hopefully, ugly mug grinning. He might’ve been able to resist his troops for a moment, but he had no hope against that, and he scratched him behind the missing ear, just as he liked it.

The sun had almost set, and he watched as it disappeared over the horizon in truth, the last red slivers slowly fading away. Tomorrow would be bloody.