Dusk had fallen on the city, and Steve was pushing a wagon heavy with sundries through the streets of King’s Landing. When Larys had told him he would be getting through the gate with the servants, he had imagined he’d be acting as one of them, not as a backup mule. Instead of two beasts pulling the wagon, there was only one, and it was a complainer. If Steve did anything less than push most of the weight, it would baulk and slow.

The wheels of the wagon ground loudly as they crossed the cobbled square that lay before the great barbican of the Red Keep. It rose up above them, a formidable defensive structure that would give pause to any force, let alone four servants and Steve. Well, maybe the four servants.

They slowed as they neared, the guards already looking up with professional interest.

“Aryk, how are ye?” the leader of the servants said. He hadn’t introduced himself when Steve had joined them, and he hadn’t asked.

“You know my shift is almost over, how do you think,” Aryk said. His face was pockmarked. “Who’s this?

“Simple cousin we brought to push the wagon,” the servant said. “Mule broke its leg late this afternoon.”

Aryk peered at Steve, and Steve smiled his ‘boy-I-sure-do-love-America’ smile that he’d perfected in his touring days. The guard grunted.

“Right,” he said. “In you go. I’ll see you next week.”

Through the gate they went, and Steve glanced up at the heavy iron portcullis that would come crashing down at the kick of a lever. He’d just have to make sure there would be no reason to do so.

Once in the outer bailey, they steered the wagon over to an out of the way corner of the yard, by a small shed, and began unloading it. Chests and kegs were handled quietly, a certain level of nerves gripping the other four as they worked. Steve took the chance to glance around, taking in the yard. He had passed through it several times when he had been a guest, and it was much the same as he remembered it. The walls were patrolled by Gold Cloaks armed with bows and spears, but none seemed to spare so much as a glance their way.

“You wait here,” the lead servant told Steve. “‘We’ will be back shortly.”

Steve nodded, and he was left alone. He had a sudden yearning for his shield, or even his hammer, but the hammer was back at the Eyrie, and his shield was with Robin. The minutes ticked by slowly, and he pretended to be busy with the cart and the mule. It lacked Bill’s ill temper, but also his smarts.

Movement caught his eye, and he saw three figures approaching, dressed as servants. Elbert led the way, Lysa at his back with her hair tied up in a serviceable bun, none of the elaborate style that had been on display at Riverrun to be seen, and a young man who shared a jawline with Robert bringing up the rear - but that was all. There was no Lyanna to be seen.

“Steve,” Elbert said, voice terse. He was near to fuming.

“Elbert, Lysa,” Steve said. “Stannis. Where’s Lyanna?”

“Whoever is behind this sent a message, said he couldn’t get her out. The King has too tight a grip on her,” Elbert said. He visibly held his tongue.

“We should not leave without her,” Stannis said. His jaw was clenching.

“I know!” Elbert snapped, quietly. “But we’ve come too far, and it’s surely the Black Cells or worse if we’re caught now, for all of us.”

Stannis glanced at Lysa. The young woman had her arms wrapped around herself, and her lips were pressed so tightly together they were bloodless. “I should stay,” he said.

“No.” “I will not let you.”

Elbert glanced at Steve, who had spoken first, but the bigger man gestured for him to speak.

“You would gain nothing, and only weaken our families,” he said. “Lyanna has not tried to escape, and she would be his only hostage. She will not be harmed. She will not.”

Stannis clenched his fists in anger. He wasn’t quite as broad as his brother, but he was just as tall.

“If you stay, he’ll put you on the pyre,” Lysa said. “Please don’t stay.”

“...fine,” Stannis said at length. “How does one steer a mule?”

“A lot like a horse, but they’re meaner,” Steve said. “Now, come on. We’re servants with nothing to hide, heading home after the last delivery of the day.”

They turned the wagon around, aiming it for the gate, and got it moving. On the walls, the shift was changing, the officers at the gate having already been relieved. There were more guards, but they were distracted, occupied with other tasks or by their comrades. Elbert led the way, Lysa sitting on the wagon seat and Stannis walking alongside, while Steve pushed from behind. He could only hope their missing number went unnoticed.

It seemed to take forever to reach the gate, the patch of cobblestone stretching out almost forever. Steve’s gut told him that Lyanna’s absence wasn’t going to be the only hitch in the plan, and he kept expecting the portcullis to come slamming down with every footstep. Then they were under it, and he wondered if he would break his arms should he attempt to catch it when it fell, and suddenly they were through.

They began to make their way across the cobblestone square for the transient safety of the streets on the far side, and he heard Lysa let out a soft breath. The hardest part was over.

Then, he heard the buzz of an arrow on the wind.

Steve turned, but he was too slow, his fingertips just brushing the fletching as he tried to catch the blur in his peripheral vision. Stannis grunted in pain as his leg gave out from under him, the arrow sticking out just under the back of his left knee. More arrows were fired, these ones aimed at Elbert and Lysa, but this time he was ready. He caught them, crushing them in his fists as he stared up at the two archers on the castle walls. They were nocking more arrows.

It was all a trap, Steve realised. Larys’ master meant for the hostages to die to Aerys’ men.

“Stannis!” Lysa cried. She leapt from the wagon, rushing to him where he was clutching at its side to support himself.

“Snap the shaft,” Stannis said, hissing in pain. “Snap it!”

Lysa listened, reaching for the shaft of the arrow to snap it in one motion and dropping it to the ground.

“Run!” Steve ordered. Two more arrows were fired, and two more were caught, and he cursed his lack of a weapon. He tore a long plank from the side of the wagon, even as he heard shouts rising from the other side of the walls.

Elbert seized Stannis by the arm, throwing it over his shoulders, and they began an ungainly three legged run across the square, Lysa right behind them as she hoisted her skirts.

More guards appeared on the wall, and they joined the first two in firing. Whether they were in on the plot, or just assuming their fellows had just cause, Steve didn’t know. He jogged backwards, spinning the wooden plank to catch every arrow that came his way.

Another volley was nocked by the men crowding atop the wall, but then an arrow sprouted from the eye of one of the first guards, and he collapsed limply, disappearing from sight.

Chancing a glance, Steve saw Robin mounted on his horse in the middle of the street they were running for, already stringing another arrow. He drew and fired smoothly, and another guard fell, choking on the arrow through their neck. The others ducked for cover, and it was all they needed to make it across the square and to Robin.

“Mount up,” Steve ordered, shepherding them to a nearby alley where five horses waited. “Stannis, can you ride?”

“I must,” Stannis said. He was pale, and his leg was wet with blood. “But we’ll be ridden down with ease if we flee outright.”

“We can’t stay in the city, waiting to be found,” Steve said. “These weren’t the only horses we bought either.”

Robin loosed another arrow, just to keep the guards honest, and glanced at them. “Where’s -”

“Only three,” Steve said, a grim set to his mouth.

“The other gates have six riders,” he said.

“We’ll have to hope the darkness is enough,” Steve said.

Fabric tore as Lysa ripped a long strip from her dress, pressing it into Stannis’ hands, and he grunted as he began to bind the wound, leaning into his horse. Steve stepped up to help, wrapping it quickly and efficiently, before hoisting the young man up into his saddle.

“What is your plan?” Elbert asked, helping Lysa ahorse before mounting up himself. “Six riders? You have decoys?”

“Six riders at every gate, a white horse among each of them,” Steve said. “We ride for the lords, and hope we reach them before our pursuers do. We make for the gate of the gods.” He touched his heels to Fury’s flanks, and Fury broke into a gallop, sensing his urgency.

The other horses followed, their shoes striking the stones like thunderclaps as they charged down the central avenue of King’s Landing. Shutters opened and doors were thrown wide as they passed, many a resident sticking their heads out to find the cause of such clamour. They did not know it then, but in the years to come they would be able to boast of having witnessed the furious escape, the beginning of the flight that would come to be known as Lord America’s Ride.

X

The Gate of the Gods loomed ahead, bright torches on either side throwing back the darkness. The last travellers of the day were entering the city, tired Gold Cloaks eager to be done ushering them through. The thunder of their hoofbeats drew their attention, and there was a moment of confusion. Then they started to realise that maybe any group that was so hellbent on escaping the city should perhaps be stopped, and they began to form up, but their efforts were in vain. None of them had the balls (or lack of sense) to put themselves between a charging horse and freedom, though one of them was cranking a crossbow. An arrow sprouted from his shoulder before he could bring it to bear, Robin sinking awkwardly back into his saddle. One guard set his spear in the ground in an attempt to wound a horse as they rode past. Steve wished for his shield, whole and unshattered so he could ricochet it off the man, but thankfully he was clearly inexperienced, and they were able to veer around him. Someone shouted for the portcullis to be dropped, but it was too late, and then they were through the gate and chasing freedom.

An arrow whistled past them, a lone archer atop the wall, but he was too slow to string another before they were out of range. They galloped down the dirt road, heading north to safety.

The landscape passed in a blur, true night setting in, and they were forced to slow their mad ride for fear of a mount breaking a leg or throwing a shoe. Fury was the only mount of true quality they had, Robin’s Scruffy bred for hardiness and the mountains, and those obtained for the rescue were only the best of a poor crop purchased in haste.

“How far must we ride?” Elbert called.

“The lords are a day’s ride away, if we’re lucky,” Steve said. “Stannis, how’s your leg?”

“Fine,” the young man said. He didn’t sound fine, and Lysa was riding close to him, pale face anxious in the dark.

“We could break off,” Robin suggested. “They wouldn’t expect it.”

“Too risky,” Elbert said. “Aerys will send his best after us.”

They slowed to a trot, giving the horses some respite. Save Fury, all were heaving and blowing.

“Ravens will have been sent, too,” Stannis said. “Our path may be blocked.”

“What Houses do we need to pass?” Steve asked.

“Hayford, first,” Elbert said.

Steve held back his immediate reaction. “Damn. Can we go around?”

“Not quickly,” Elbert answered.

“Then we go through Hayford,” Steve said. “Won’t be the first time, anyway.”

They kept to their slow pace long enough for the horses to recover somewhat, and then began to canter again. There was a sense of pursuit nipping at their heels, and despite the moonless night it felt like they were being watched as they rode. They lit no torches, seeking safety in the dark.

Perhaps an hour into their flight they saw the first signs of pursuit. A riding party could be seen far behind them, torches held aloft, appearing and disappearing behind bends and small hillocks, but slowly growing closer.

“We’re being followed,” Robin said, the second to notice.

“More than ten men, less than twenty,” Steve said. “I think it’s Gold Cloaks.”

“We’ll have to risk more speed,” Elbert said. “They can’t have seen us, but if they grow closer I don’t like a fight.” The party slowed and stopped, turning to look to their pursuers.

“No,” Steve said. “You all keep going. I’ll deal with them.”

“You can’t take a dozen odd Gold Cloaks unarmed and unarmoured,” Stannis said, wincing as he pulled the makeshift bandage on his leg tighter.

“I won’t be unarmed,” Steve said. “Robin, my shield?”

“It’s in the rear right bag,” the kid said. “Figured you’d want it closer to hand.”

Steve undid the buckles, and retrieved his weapon. It slid onto his arm with a comforting familiarity, and he hopped off his mount. “Take Fury with you.”

“I’ll not have you sacrifice yourself for us Ser,” Elbert said.

“This isn’t a sacrifice play,” Steve said. He’d gotten better about that sort of thing, though he was sure Bucky would disagree if - when - they met again, given the whole thing with the Gauntlet and the Westeros business entirely. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

Robin took him at his word, nudging Scruffy onwards with a click of his tongue to Fury, while Elbert glared at him with a silent demand to honour his word. Stannis spared him a look and a nod, while Lysa mouthed a thank you before they were gone, hoofbeats slowly fading into the dark.

Steve eyed the party of riders as they drew closer. He would deal with them swiftly.

To the riders, blinded beyond the light that their torches provided, it must have seemed that he appeared from nothing, looming out of the darkness where he stood in the middle of the road. The lead horses shied at the sudden obstacle, veering around him, and their riders attempted to stop, but it was too late, and then he was amongst them.

Steve leapt, seizing a rider around the neck with one arm and allowing the man’s momentum to do the rest, sending him tumbling into the dirt. Shouts and challenges rang through the air, as the group attempted to circle their foe and pin him in place, but to no avail. Maille was poor defence against his shield as he kicked men clear off their horses or knocked them clean out with a gentle tap, and those were the lucky ones. Another was spear tackled into the dirt and left more focused on trying to suck in a breath than to bring down his target.

The Gold Cloaks were given no chance to reform, getting in the way of their comrades as they sought to chase the man who was darting in and out of the mob that their pursuit had become. A riderless horse was slapped on the hindquarters, and it surged forward, knocking over an already wheezing man who had just gotten to his feet.

The last man standing just had time to see the white star before it bashed him from his horse, and he landed heavily in the dirt. The groans of his fellows were loud in the night, and he could hardly see, torches dropped in the dirt or guttered out. He looked up, and his breath caught as he saw the man that had done this to them, face shadowed as he looked down at him. His shield and jaw were illuminated by a flickering torch, but no more.

“Son, I don’t think you want this fight.”

The Gold Cloak shook his head rapidly, keeping his hands well clear of the sword still belted at his waist.

“Good.”

The simple guardsman sagged in relief as the man who could have killed them all stepped out of the light and disappeared. He wasn’t paid nearly enough for this shit.

X

Steve eased his pace as he caught up to the others a few miles down the road, breathing deeply and easily. “No trouble?” he called as he neared.

The riders startled at his sudden appearance, turning in their saddles. Only Robin recovered easily, while the others stared, befuddled. Their pace slowed to a trot, and then a halt.

“I thought you meant to steal a horse,” Elbert said.

“Don’t need one,” Steve said.

“Did you catch up on foot?” Lysa asked. Her mount was sucking in great breaths, and there was foam at its mouth. The other purchased horses weren’t much better.

“Yep,” Steve said. “We need to change mounts. Stannis, on Fury. Lysa, the spare. Robin, Elbert, how are yours going?”

“He’s slow, but he’s got wind left in him,” Robin said.

“Not well,” Elbert said. “If we can’t find new mounts, we need to slow or commit.”

Steve helped Stannis off his mount, lifting him up into Fury’s saddle rather than strain his leg. “Hayford should have a few to spare for us,” he said. He didn’t like the idea of riding a horse to death.

“That poor man,” Elbert said, words belied by his tone. “Perhaps he should just pay you to keep your distance.”

“Well, he has it coming,” Steve said. He checked over Fury; the white horse was fine but he took a waterskin from his bag and poured it into his hand for the beast to drink anyway.

The others did the same with their mounts, giving them what rest they could. The initial pursuit from King’s Landing had been dealt with, but there would surely be more, and they still had Hayford ahead. It was going to be a long night.

X

When he had had the misfortune to run into Hayford and his little gang, Steve hadn’t realised that he had already passed through his lands on the way to Harrenhal. The castle sat atop a hill, and a stream ran along its base, around which a village had sprung up. The Kingsroad itself did not go through the village. Instead, it curled around it, a smaller lane breaking off to service the village and castle, before rejoining the main road.

It was on this main road that trouble waited. A pair of torches had been driven into the earth on either side, and between them waited five armoured knights. They were mounted, and they wore colours familiar to Steve. Whether that meant they were family or only sworn to the man he had crippled, he wasn’t sure.

Still cloaked in darkness, Steve and his companions stopped, out of sight from the roadblock.

“What do we do?” Robin asked. “I don’t like my odds of putting an arrow through their visors.”

“Nor will I be any use in a fight,” Stannis ground out. His bleeding had stopped, and they’d had time to apply a new bandage, shortening Lysa’s dress further, but he was still pale.

“We could creep around them,” Elbert said, but he didn’t sound like he liked the idea.

Steve glanced overhead. The clouds were beginning to part, and the light of the moon was starting to peer through. Whether it would continue that way or darken once more, he couldn’t say. “I think I’ll try talking,” he said. He nudged Fury into a walk, approaching the likely ambush. He heard a curse behind him, but his companions joined him nonetheless.

He saw the exact moment the waiting knights noticed their approach, as well as the moment they realised just who it was. Their hands went to their swords, only to freeze as they saw his shield, and then he was coming to a stop before them, amicable as can be.

“Fellas,” Steve said, leaning forward in his saddle. “Nice night for a stroll.” The torches flared as a cool breeze picked up. His nose twitched.

“Lord America,” the knight in the middle said. He sounded young, and when he flicked his visor up a man with passing familiarity was revealed. He looked to have just passed the cusp between boy and man. “The King sent word that some of his charges had been abducted.” He swallowed, looking at the three nobles behind Steve with rather distinctive looks.

“Did he now,” Steve said. “Do you feel very abducted, Elbert? How about you Stannis? Lysa?”

“I can’t say I do,” Elbert said.

Lysa shook her head, staying quiet.

“Aerys’ guards put an arrow through my leg as we escaped the Keep,” Stannis said bluntly.

“His Grace’s commands were very clear,” the man said.

“It’s a tough situation you’re in,” Steve said. “On the one hand, you’ve got a King. On the other, you’ve got Lord Stark, Lord Tully, Lord Arryn, and Lord Baratheon.” He made a weighing gesture with his hands. “I can see how you’d have a hard time with that.”

The man did not answer, and attempted to exchange a subtle glance with his fellows.

“You know what?” Steve said, snapping his fingers. “We haven’t been introduced. You know me, but I didn’t get your name.”

“I am Lord Ander,” the knight said. “Lord Hayford is my older brother.”

“You know, I think I met your brother, at Harrenhal,” Steve said. The knights before him stiffened. “He and twenty other knights tried to attack me.” He let the pleasantness fall from his face. “You do not have twenty knights here.”

Ander swallowed. “I am sworn to obey my liege lord.”

“You’re in a bad spot here,” Steve said, “and you’ve got two options that each end with someone pissed with you. I want to offer you a third.”

“What might that be?”

“Give us your horses, and let us go,” Steve said. “Just talking to us has slowed us down more than you could have by fighting us.”

The other four knights shifted in their saddles, but didn’t protest. It seemed that the events at Harrenhal had spread.

“You tell the King’s men that you did what you could, and we’ll tell the lords the same,” Steve continued. He could feel them wavering. “Do this, and I’ll consider any feud between me and your House in the past.”

Ander glanced towards the castle to the west. Lights could be seen in its windows. “You’ll not bear a grudge against my brother?” he asked. “He is…not portrayed well in the gossip from the tournament.”

“He did the wrong thing,” Steve said, “and his actions weren’t that of a good person. But grudges aren’t my style. If Hayford is willing to let things lie, then so am I.”

Ander struggled for a long moment. “...fine. We couldn’t stop you anyway,” he said, bitter.

“You couldn’t,” Steve said, “but if you thought I’d really taken hostages, I don’t think you’d be making the same decision.”

“If you say so, Lord America,” Ander said.

“I do say so,” Steve said. “You were brave enough to use yourself as bait for the ten guys hiding on either side of the road to ambush us.”

Behind him, Elbert stilled, and Robin half readied an arrow.

“You saw them,” Ander said.

“Smelt them, more like,” Steve said. “You’d have been better off putting them all on one side of the road and hoping the wind stays steady.”

Ander Hayford sighed, and dismounted. “This is my favourite horse,” he said.

“You’ll get them back,” Steve said. “Scout’s honour.”

The other knights followed suit, and it did not take long for the others to swap to the fresh horses. A few more minutes were wheedled out of them by removing the barding and house colours, but Steve allowed it, knowing that the less encumbered horses would run further faster and more than make up for it. He kept Fury, of course, and Robin tied Scruffy to his new mount. It was not long before they were ready to leave, the full moon overhead lighting their way.

“You might want to have a bit of a spar here,” Steve said, giving some parting wisdom. “Give each other a few bruises, kick some dirt around.”

“To save you the trouble?” one of the other knights asked, disgruntled.

“To save yourselves,” Steve said. “I beat up a dozen odd Gold Cloaks a few hours ago, and if the next group after us sees what they expect, they won’t ask questions.”

The knight closed his mouth, thinking his words over, and Steve looked around, mounting up once more. Some of the men-at-arms had stopped hiding, revealed by the moon, and he gave them all a nod.

“Maybe next time we meet it can be over a drink,” Steve said to Ander. “Good luck.” He nudged Fury into a trot, and then a canter, and they were on their way once more. He let out a breath as they cleared the road block, and no arrows were loosed at their backs. Negotiating like that might be risky, but it had paid off, this time at least.

If they were lucky, the worst was behind them.

X

They were not lucky. The light of false dawn was just creeping over the land, and Hayford was well behind them when they caught sight of another party off in the distance. They were riding hard, and the sun seemed to reflect off one of them more than the others.

“We’ve got more company,” Steve said, turning back to the front.

“More goldcloaks?” Robin asked hopefully.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Steve said. “I think one of them is wearing white armour.”

“Kingsguard,” Elbert said. He cursed. “And we don’t have any idea how far from the host we are.”

“Keep riding, as hard as we can,” Steve said. “Stannis?”

“Fine,” the teenager said, as he had every time he was asked, and Steve looked to Lysa instead.

Lysa’s dress was barely below her knees at this point, and she had been the first to call for a stop each time the bandages needed changing. She gave a reluctant nod, chewing on her lip.

“You tell us the moment you need to rest,” Steve ordered, and the stubborn lord nodded. They rode onwards, pushing the horses as hard as they dared.

As the false dawn faded and the sun rose in truth, their pursuers drew closer, and it became clear that it was no group of ill trained guards, but two dozen knights, led by a knight of the Kingsguard. It soon became clear that if they continued as they were, they would soon be caught. They had to make a decision, and a stone bridge over a river with steep banks provided the opportunity. Each side was forested by thick trees, and birdsong echoed through them.

“Woah!” Steve called, tugging on Fury’s reins. He clattered to a stop, and the others stopped with him.

“Steve?” Robin asked.

“This is where we make a decision,” Steve said. “Our pursuers are catching up, and if we keep riding, even at our best pace, they’ll reach us eventually.”

“You’re right,” Elbert said, looking back down the road they had come from. “Shit. We can’t try to lose them in the woods, not with Stannis’ leg.”

Stannis coughed, clearing his throat. “I could delay-”

“No.”

Steve and Lysa shared a look, having both spoken at the same time.

“The value of you as a hostage far outweighs any delay you could cause,” Steve said, speaking to the group. “We’ve got three options. One, we keep riding, and hope we reach the lords and their host before the knights reach us.”

The expressions they wore spoke well enough for their opinion of that option.

“Two, we send Robin ahead on Fury, and he makes contact with the host to bring help back to us,” Steve continued. “Three, you all ride ahead, and I hold this bridge against anyone who tries to cross it.”

“No good options,” Stannis said. His wounded leg was limp against his horse, no longer even partially useful.

“You’ve gotten us further than any other knight would have, Ser,” Lysa said. She lifted her chin, trying to be brave. “What would you decide?”

There was only one answer that guaranteed their safety. “I’m going to hold the bridge. Robin, you’ll take Fury and ride ahead.”

“No, I’ll stay and-”

“Robin,” Steve said, his tone silencing him. “You’ll ride ahead, and get help.”

“I’m your squire,” Robin argued, but weaker now.

“And I’m relying on you to get help,” Steve said. “Do you understand?”

“...yes Ser.”

He reached out, leaning so he could clasp him by the shoulder briefly, before turning to the others. “Go as fast as you can, and don’t stop or wait for me to reach you. I’ll catch up when I catch up.”

“I’ll not forget this, Ser,” Elbert said.

“None of us will,” Stannis said.

Lysa was crying silently, but she nodded in agreement with them, wiping her tears.

“You’d better not, you owe me drinks for this when I see you all next,” Steve said, trying to lift their spirits. He even got Stannis to crack a smile through his pain, so he’d say he succeeded. “Squire, my armour is on Scruffy?”

“Yes Ser,” Robin said.

“Then let’s get me armoured up. Time’s wasting.”

It did not take long to get the borrowed armour on Steve. The plate was dented and scratched, the maille had seen cleaner days, and the gambeson was worn, but it fit, and it was better than fighting in the servant’s garb he wore. The sword he ignored, leaving it with Elbert just in case, content with his shield.

“You’d better come back, Steve,” Robin said, looking down on him from Fury’s back.

“I will,” Steve said. He turned south, and began his vigil. “Go.”

Hoofbeats sounded, and then he was alone. He would not be for long.

The sun was higher overhead when they arrived. They rode four abreast and five deep, and their mounts had been pressed hard. A knight in white armour rode at their head, white cloak billowing behind them, and Steve hoped it wasn’t Barristan. They saw him, standing in the middle of the bridge blocking the path, and they began to slow.

Steve let out a breath. If they had tried to just run him down, it would have made things awkward.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Finally, they came to a stop before him, spreading out from their formation. Some looked to the trees, expecting an ambush, but there was none to be found. There was only Steve.

The Kingsguard was at the front, and he raised his visor. “Lord America,” he said.

It wasn’t Barristan. He didn’t recognise him at all. He remained silent, and readied his best parade ground voice.

“Where are-”

“None shall pass!” He hadn’t been able to help himself, even if there would soon be no time for jokes. Tony certainly wouldn’t have forgiven him if he’d let the opportunity pass.

“You are a black example of a knight,” one of the others said. “You take advantage of Ser Selmy’s good nature.”

Steve stayed silent.

“Where are your captives?” the Kingsguard asked again.

“I have no captives,” Steve said.

“Do not play games with me, Ser,” the Kingsguard said. “I am Ser Darry, a knight of the Kingsguard. You have abducted noble guests under the protection of His Grace. You will return them, and face justice.”

“I have no captives,” Steve repeated, “only rescued hostages, well on their way back to their families.”

“Your lies will not serve you,” Darry said. He was already looking down the path, as if he could see the trail left by the others. “Take him.”

Two knights dismounted and advanced on Steve, swords drawn. They approached him from either side, intent on beating him into submission.

He sighed. Then, as they neared, he moved. A snap kick shattered the knee of one, and the other found their sword arm popped from its socket, and their elbow bent far beyond what it could handle. Pained shrieks were pried from them, and Steve stepped back as Darry surged forward, putting himself between him and the two men, sword ringing clear of its sheath.

It was not a safe place to be. Steve caught his blow on his shield, reaching up with his other hand to drag him from his horse. It reared back, lashing out with its hooves, but Steve was faster, and his grip could not be shaken. Darry spilled from his saddle headfirst, and Steve’s knee came up to meet his face. His visor crumpled with a spurt of blood, and Steve dropped him into the dirt.

There was a moment’s pause, as the rest of the knights looked at their wounded fellows in shock.

“None shall pass,” Steve said again, but this time there was no humour to it, not even to him. This time it was just a threat.

The knights, loyal to King Aerys and chosen to pursue his abducted guests, were not men of faint heart. They retrieved their unconscious leader and crippled comrades, drawing them back and away from the bridge. Not to retreat, but to gain space. Warhorses stamped the ground, eager for what they knew was to come. Steve watched as seven knights formed a wedge. They meant to run him down.

The lead knight spurred his mount, and it reared back with a whinny. Hooves beat the road as it fell into a charge, kicking up dirt, and the wedge followed. The bridge walls were low, offering an escape if one did not mind swimming in armour, but it was ignored.

The moment before the lead horse would collide with him, Steve leapt straight into the air, twisting with grace that a professional gymnast would have wept to see, clearing the charge with ease. He brought his shield down on the shoulder of the leader, hearing metal groan and bones snap. The force of the blow knocked him back in the saddle, but somehow he remained mounted, for all the good it did him.

Steve landed easily behind the charge, and turned to face them. There was no room for them to turn on the bridge, not with seven horses shoulder to shoulder, and they were forced to continue across, unable to face the threat at their backs. Their vulnerability cost them, as one knight felt a sudden extra weight behind him, and an arm wrapping around his waist.

With a heave, Steve lifted his victim up and over him, leaning back to dump the man to the ground with a mighty clatter. There was a knight on either side of him, but they were slow to realise what had happened, and he struck right, then left, driving his shield into their ribs. The plate was no protection, and ribs snapped easily.

They were almost across the bridge, and Steve stood upright on the back of the horse, balancing easily. He jumped towards the last three knights on the other side of the wedge, kicking two in the head and tackling the last from his horse. They fell as they crossed to the far side of the river, the knight struggling to drive his rondel knife into Steve’s armpit as he rode him to the ground. Steve punched him in the chest and heard his sternum crack. The knife dropped from grasping fingers as the man struggled to draw breath in his dented plate.

Steve rose, turning back to the other end of the bridge. Ten down, eleven to go. He began to march towards them.

They stared aghast as Steve advanced, nearing the man he had heaved from the saddle. The knight tried to drag himself out of the way, one leg twisted, but Steve stepped over him, not even sparing a glance. He planted himself exactly where he had stood when they arrived, just at the edge of the bridge. He did not speak, but he did not have to. The groans and curses of their battered comrades behind him spoke loud enough. None shall pass.

Wordlessly, they began to dismount and form up, intent on taking the fight to him on foot. Their foe was of singular ability, and many were remembering the tales they had heard, of Harrenhal and Barristan, of the Kingswood and the Smiling Knight, but they knew their duties. They were here to carry out the will of the King, and they would not shy from it. Swords were held firmly, daggers drawn and shields donned, and they stepped up to meet their enemy.

Steve watched them draw near, wariness clear in their stances. They spread out, two rows deep, to avoid fouling each other. He let them approach, waiting - and then the first stepped onto the bridge. Faster than any man in armour had any right to, he drove his shield edge into the man’s torso, ignoring their shield like it wasn’t there. The knight was knocked back and off his feet.

Another knight sought to take advantage, sword angled to strike his face, but he leaned back, turning into a flip, and kicked him in the jaw. Two sword blows were caught on his shield, and more knights pressed in, crowding him. He grabbed the wrist of a man who was trying to drive a dagger into his groin, squeezing until he heard bones snap. His arm was grabbed by another, the man trying to pin him, but he lacked the strength to do more than slow him, and Steve kicked him into the bridge wall. He slid to the ground, fumbling for his weapon.

There were too many too close, and the lack of a helm was costing him. A knife caught him across the cheek, only his reflexes stopping it from being driven through his eye, and he grunted as a dagger was driven into his stomach, barely stopped by his armour.

An elbow to the face crushed another visor, earning a scream of pain, and gave him the space he needed to seize another by the neck. With a twist of his wrist, he snapped the man’s neck, and a bloody dagger was dropped from limp fingers. He spun, shield out, leading with the jagged edge. The scent of blood hit the air as plate was torn and jagged gashes were left across the sides of two men, sending them reeling back. The man who stepped into their place was met with a sabaton to the stomach, breaking ribs and knocking him to the ground. The man who had tried to gut him tried again, but this time Steve swept his legs from under him, and then stomped on his shoulder, hard. The scream it drew from him was loud and piercing.

There were only two knights left uninjured, and they were suddenly very aware of that fact, even if some were slowly getting to their feet, cradling limbs or babying injuries. There was no victory here for them. Even so, they set their jaws, moving to engage Steve once more.

“This is your chance to make the smart choice,” Steve said. They stopped, sharing a glance. “Your friends are wounded. One is dead, and if you don’t get them medical attention, more will join him.”

For a moment, they were tempted, but only for a moment.

“We will not shame ourselves so,” one said. The other nodded, raising his sword.

“Suit yourselves,” Steve said. He heard a faint hoof step behind him, and he ducked down as a sword sought to cleave his head off. It was an awkward blow, struck by the man whose shoulder he had broken in the opening charge. Steve grabbed him by the ankle as he passed, letting his momentum drag him from his horse, and he howled as he landed on the unforgiving stone.

The final two knights rushed him, but he could see in their eyes they knew how it would end. He met one shield first, knocking him from his feet, and grabbed the wrist of the other, giving him the choice between a broken wrist and a missed stab. The man made the smart choice, and Steve yanked on his arm harshly enough to dislocate his shoulder, throwing him onto the other man.

Steve looked around, taking in the scene. Wounded men were everywhere, clutching at arms, wrists, shoulders, faces. Some had gotten off light enough, only dealing with the pain of broken bones, while others had shattered joints, or were still unconscious or unable to move. The man who had attempted to drive a rondel dagger through his eye was still as the grave, eyes glassy in death.

Across the bridge, some few were still ahorse, but they could hardly grip the reins without pain. Despite that, they still seemed to be on the verge of making another charge. He met their eyes one by one and shook his head, slowly. They swallowed, and thought better of it.

The supersoldier stood over the last two foes, watching as they attempted to disentangle from one another without causing themselves more pain. “Ready to make the smart choice now?” he asked.

“Yield,” said the man with the dislocated arm, holding up one hand. “Yield.”

“Smart move,” Steve said. “Now, give me your arm.”

“My arm - wait FUCK!” the knight said, shouting in pain as Steve popped his shoulder back into its socket.

Steve ignored the sudden tension that ratched up amongst the others. Some of them even took a step towards him, as if to defend their fellow, but even they seemed unsure as to what they were going to do. “Now rotate your arm for me,” he ordered, helping the man to his feet.

Gingerly, the knight began to move his arm, faster once he realised there was no sudden pain. “It’s sore, but…” he shook his head. “Why have you done this? We are foes.”

“It would have been easier to kill you all,” Steve said, and the cold honesty in his words silenced any protests they might have made. “Someone needs to help the wounded back to safety.”

Slowly, those capable of watching got to their feet, still wary of the man who had so thoroughly defeated them. Active wariness lapsed into unspoken caution when he made no move against them, and they set about helping their comrades up.

Groans and smothered gasps of pain rose around him as his defeated foes slowly regathered themselves, limping into some sort of order. Those with working arms tied the unconscious into their saddles, while those with broken ribs did their best to stay upright, breathing shallowly and in pain. Steve did not envy them their ride to come, but then they were the ones to pick the fight with him.

“Where will you go?” Steve asked.

“Hayford is the nearest castle,” the knight whose arm Steve had dislocated said. “We will seek aid there.” He hesitated a moment. “I had suspected something amiss with their tale of your passing, but then this fight…” He seemed at a loss for words.

“There’s always someone stronger,” Steve said.

“Will you claim ransom?” he asked.

“No,” Steve said. “This isn’t a tournament. Just leave me a horse, and be on your way.”

There was some whispered discussion amongst the less injured, and Steve found himself holding the reins of Darry’s grey palfrey, Kingsguard barding still worn proudly. He watched as the knights departed, painfully making their way south in sharp contrast to their swift pursuit north. It was clear that they had been through the wringer. No victorious return would they have, one of their comrades draped over the rear of a horse, their leader still senseless and bleeding. The mood that hung over them reminded Steve of some of the men he had seen returning from the trenches, as they struggled to comprehend what they had experienced.

Steve clicked his tongue at his new horse, and turned north. The sun was rising, and his ride was not yet complete.

X x X

Steve heard them before he saw them, as he rode along at a steady walk. The Kingsroad snaked through a cluster of hills, and the thunder of hoofbeats echoed through them. He tightened the straps on his shield, just in case, and ran a hand down Brooklyn’s neck, soothing the animal.

A party of riders rounded the bend ahead, no more than twenty. They were riding hard, clad in grey cloaks and steel, and were led by two familiar figures. At their first glimpse of him and his horse in Kingsguard barding they sped up, but then he raised his shield. Their intensity eased, and their charge began to slow, until they met and came to a stop.

“Lord America,” Rickard Stark said. His cloak covered metal armour, and there was a sword across his back. His men circled around them in a protective circle, facing outwards.

“Lord Stark,” Steve said. “What brings you to these parts?”

“Your squire was insistent,” Rickard said. “Seemed to think you were in some kind of trouble.”

“It was only twenty knights and a Kingsguard,” Steve said. His mouth quirked as he glanced at Robin, where the kid sat ahorse next to Rickard. “Don’t know what he was worried about.”

Robin looked indignant, but restrained himself to unintelligible grumbles given the Warden next to him.

“If it were any other man…” Rickard said. He glanced at Steve’s horse, shaking his head.

“Are the others safe?” Steve asked.

“They’re with the host now,” Rickard said. “You’ve done a great thing, America, but…my daughter?”

The joy of the reunion fell away. “We should head back to the others, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Rickard nodded grimly, and began barking orders. The men fell in, and they began to ride once more.

X

By the time they reached the host, it had made camp once more, at least to a point. The large tent that Steve had invited himself into had been set up, and the men were on alert, hardly a day from King’s Landing as they were. Rickard led Steve straight to the tent, pausing only to hand off Brooklyn to Robin with instructions to care for her.

Inside the tent were faces familiar and not. Elbert and Jon Arryn were standing shoulder to shoulder, talking quietly, while Hoster and Lysa sat at the table, Hoster holding his daughters hands in his own, neither speaking. There were a few other men in the tent with the look of lords, but Steve recognised none of them. Stannis was nowhere to be seen.

“My lords,” Rickard said. All eyes turned to him, and then swiftly to Steve at his side. “We have returned.”

“Steve,” Elbert said, face breaking out in relief. He strode towards him, clasping his arm. “You are well?”

“Told you not to worry, didn’t I?” Steve said. “Where’s Stannis?”

“With the healer,” Elbert said. “His leg–it doesn’t look good.”

Steve nodded, grimacing. He hadn’t liked the look of it, or the amount of blood he’d lost.

“Lord Stannis’ fate is up to the healer and the gods now,” Rickard said. He stood still, but seemed to almost vibrate with a suppressed urge to do something. “We must know what you discovered in King’s Landing.”

“It was not what I expected,” Steve said. He looked over to the table and took a chair, and it seemed to be the signal for all the lords still standing to do the same. “The people there had no idea anything was wrong, at least when I left.”

“There was no war footing?” Jon asked. “No recruitment amongst the Gold Cloaks?”

“Prices weren’t even going up,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Not that I had the chance to do a proper investigation. Things got complicated faster than I was expecting.”

“You didn’t wait a day before infiltrating the Red Keep,” Elbert said, half laughing.

“Don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today,” Steve said. He frowned. “There’s someone else playing games in the city, though.”

“What kind of games?” Hoster asked.

“After I made contact with Elbert, I received a message from someone calling themselves ‘Larys’,” Steve said. “He offered me a way to rescue the hostages that night, rather than waiting as I had planned.”

He spoke, sharing the events of the meeting at Chataya’s, and of how he suspected he had been found out. He spoke of the scheme to spirit the hostages from the Keep, and of the sudden misfortune that had fouled it.

“‘Larys’,” Hoster said. “It’s a jape, surely.”

“Too obvious to be the truth?” Jon asked. “It is known that the Keep is riddled with secret tunnels. It might explain how he knew of the plan.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve asked.

“The Master of Whisperers for Aerys is an Essosi named Varys,” Jon said.

“What would Aerys gain if his hostages were killed as I helped them escape?” Steve asked.

There was a moment of silence, and Hoster’s hold on his daughter tightened.

“Little,” Rickard said. “It would be war, until we had our pound of flesh.”

“So either there’s another faction that wants total war between you and the king, or this Varys is a traitor,” Steve said.

“If it had been anyone but Steve, we would be dead,” Elbert said. “Those archers were waiting for us.”

“And my daughter is still held there,” Rickard said. His knuckles were white as he clenched his fists. “Is she well…?”

“I don’t know,” Elbert said, face grim. “We never saw her. She was not kept in the dungeons, though, but the Maidenvault.”

Rickard’s face went blank. “If he has touched a hair on her head I will feed him to a heart tree.”

“Our objective hasn’t changed,” Jon said, more to Rickard than the room, “and our position has only improved. We will continue to King’s Landing and make our demands.”

The others in the tent made noises of agreement, but did not speak their own thoughts. There was a strong sense of hierarchy in the room, but Steve felt like he was outside of it, looking in.

“I don’t like my chances of getting Lyanna out of the Keep now that they’re on alert,” Steve said. “I could risk it, but it would be bloody.”

There was a moment of bemused silence as all took in his words.

“I do not believe we will need to ask that of you, Lord America,” Hoster said.

A thought occurred to Rickard, and a sharp smile formed. “If you can get into the Keep again-”

“No,” Jon said swiftly. “That is not our goal here.”

“Not yet,” Rickard said, smile lingering.

“This Larys,” Steve said slowly, “whether it’s Varys or someone else, they seem to want conflict between you and the king.”

“Aye,” Hoster said.

“So who benefits?” Steve asked.

“An external enemy seeking to weaken us, or an internal faction wishing to gain power,” Jon said.

“The Dornish, or someone who hates them,” Hoster said.

“So everyone,” Elbert said, earning a few faint smiles.

“We cannot know, not from what information we have,” Jon said. “Would you recognise this Larys if you met him again?”

“I would,” Steve said.

“Skulduggery can wait until after we threaten the king,” Rickard said. “We should ride on, if we wish to reach the city in good time tomorrow.”

Jon grimaced, but nodded. “Lord America. You are not beholden to any of us here, yet your deeds have indebted us to you. We would welcome you to ride with us, but your choice is your own.”

“I said it to Brandon, and I’ll say it again here,” Steve said. “You have my shield.”

“We will remember this,” Rickard said. He looked around the room. “Every man here. When I get my daughter back, I will remember that you rode with me.”

Spines straightened, and resolve only grew. Their cause was just, and King’s Landing beckoned.

X

King’s Landing was a changed city. There were no lines of merchants and travellers waiting to be permitted entry, no open gates and traders hawking their wares. The walls bristled with Gold Cloaks, armour glinting under the midday sun. The dwellings that had been erected outside of the walls were deserted, emptied in a hurry as word reached the common folk of the approaching host. One could be forgiven for assuming that the city was threatened by an army of great size and malice.

An arrow’s distance from the Gate of the Gods, a host of men came to a stop on their horses. Over three hundred they were, trusted men-at-arms and minor lords, proudly wearing the colours of their lords. Stark, Arryn, and Tully were unafraid to hold their banners high, loudly announcing who it was that dared to ride in force against the home of the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

At their head rode the high lords themselves, three men whose lineage could be traced back thousands of years. They were men who ruled over millions, and they came to challenge a man who had wronged them and ruled over millions more.

They were not alone, however. At their side was a fourth man, one without any famous ancestors. His name was known, though, as was the star that he bore upon his shield.

Above the gate, one man saw the star, and he hated, oh how he hated, letting the familiar heat burn in his heart. He had known from the first, and his suspicions had only been proven, first at Harrenhal, then in his own Keep, the gall of that illborn foreigner–

Rickard spat as he took in the welcoming party. “Guess they heard we were coming.”

“It does not seem promising,” Jon said, looking the city over. He squinted. “His Grace does not seem pleased.”

“Do you suppose he recognises the horse of his Kingsguard?” Hoster asked, glancing at Steve. “That can’t be helping the scab’s mood.”

“Fury needed a rest,” Steve said, shrugging. “If he’s upset about me using Brooklyn, he shouldn’t have sent his knights after me.”

“You could have kept those Hayford horses, instead of setting them loose as we passed,” Hoster said, though he didn’t seem to care.

“It was his favourite horse,” Steve said. “I can’t steal a man’s favourite horse.”

The banter fell away as they looked on, knowing what was to come.

“You do not have to join us, Ser,” Jon said. “A king’s displeasure is not easily weathered.”

“I’ve never backed down from a bully,” Steve said, “and I’m not about to start now. Besides, he’s already seen me.”

Indeed, the figure of the king could be seen between the crenellations above the gate, almost leaning over the wall as he glared at them. Whether he was glaring at Steve in particular was impossible to tell for most, but Steve had been glared at by champions before. He knew.

“May history judge us kindly,” Jon said, more to himself than the others, before touching his heels to his horse.

The four men began to approach the walls. The lords’ ornate armour shouted their identity to the men on the walls, their names lending them security. Steve’s armour looked jarringly out of place beside them, but his shield told a different story, even shattered as it was. They neared shouting distance of the walls, well within bowshot, but there was no man who would fire. Not without the order of the king.

Finally, they came to a halt, staring up at the man whose actions had brought them there.

“KING AERYS!” Rickard boomed. “I would have words with you!”

“And who are you to make demands of me?” Aerys shouted back. His voice was a shriek, and it echoed against the walls.

“We are your Wardens, your Lord Paramount, and you have wronged us!” Hoster said.

“I have wronged you!?!” Aerys said. “You dare come before me with lies on your tongue!”

“If you would offer us bread and salt, we will come before you and speak our grievances,” Jon called.

“There will be no guest right while you threaten my capital!” Aerys said, spittle flying from his mouth. His eyes bulged, and he pointed at Steve. “And never while you keep company with that assassin!”

That was a bit harsh, Steve thought to himself, but he held his tongue.

“No assassin stands with us, Your Grace,” Jon said. “We have come to talk.”

“If we wanted to threaten your capital, we would have brought more men,” Rickard called. “So we can talk, or we can come back with more men.”

Jon winced imperceptibly.

“I knew your treachery the moment word came of your alliance!” Aerys shouted. “You have plotted and planned, but I saw! I gave you the chance to bow your heads without shame when I invited your family into my Keep, but a treacherous dog can never be trusted!”

“Fuck,” Hoster said, under his breath.

Rickard seemed to swell in his armour. “YOU SLAY MY MEN, STEAL MY DAUGHTER, AND CALL IT AN INVITATION?!”

Aerys was silent, seemingly enraged beyond the point of speaking at Rickard’s words.

“Guests invited in good faith, reduced to hostages!” Jon shouted, dropping his polite veneer. “Fired upon as they left the Red Keep! Lord Stannis Baratheon terribly wounded! These are our grievances, King Aerys Targaryen!”

“Return Lyanna Stark, and let there be peace between us!” Hoster called.

The moment stretched out, and it seemed that every soul on the wall and below it was holding their breath.

“You do not make demands of your King,” Aerys said, his volume lowering from the nearly unhinged shriek it had been. “Your King speaks, and you listen.”

“I will listen to nothing that is not the return of my daughter, untouched and unharmed!” Rickard said.

“Your daughter is mine to do with as I please,” Aerys said, voice thick with cruel enjoyment. “If you want her back, all you must do is kneel before me and present your necks. Two of you will die, and two will send me their heirs.”

Jon and Hoster gaped at the outrageous demand, but Rickard was trembling with rage.

“Whatever you do to my daughter,” Rickard said, voice unyielding, “I will do to you.”

“You threaten your king!” Aerys said, but he sounded delighted. “Treachery bared for all to see!”

“You spit on every compact between lord and king!” Jon said, aghast. Whatever he had planned or hoped for this day, it was clearly not coming to pass.

“A dragon cannot be swayed by the threats of his servants,” Aerys said. “You forget your place!”

“If you won’t return Lyanna peacefully,” Steve said, “then I will challenge you for her.” His voice cut through the building furor. “Name your champion.”

Aerys’ eyes fixed upon him, unblinking. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the battlements. Tap tap-tap-tap went his nails on the stone. “And who are you to think yourself worthy of challenging a Targaryen?” He bit the words out one by one. “You illborn child of a whore and a barbaric people, what gives you the right?”

Steve buried the anger he felt at the insult to his ma. "I'm a knight of the kingdoms you claim to rule, King Aerys."

“You are, aren’t you,” Aerys said, smiling, too low for anyone but Steve to hear. “You, you will go,” he said to someone out of sight, before turning back. “A fight to the death, for the fate of Lyarra Stark,” Aerys said, crowing.

“This has gotten out of hand,” Jon said, running a hand over his brow.

“Haven’t put you in a bad spot, I hope,” Steve said.

“No, this was always going to shit,” Hoster said. “I know we saw him at Harrenhal, but I didn’t imagine he would fall apart so quickly without Lannister’s hand on him.”

“Rickard?” Jon asked.

The Stark lord was breathing deeply and evenly, slowly mastering himself. “You get my daughter back, America. You get her back and I’ll put the strength of the North behind you in your eastern task.”

Steve looked sharply at the northerner, but he had yet to look away from Aerys, metal gauntlet creaking.

The gates began to creak open, and a breeze stirred up a flurry of dust before them. A knight in Kingsguard white was slowly revealed, visor down and hand on the sword at his hip. He walked through the gates, and came to a stop on the cobblestone road, waiting.

“Gods go with you, Lord America,” Jon murmured.

Steve dismounted, rolling his shoulders. He kept his eyes fixed on the Kingsguard before him, a black feeling in his gut. He checked his shield straps, and approached his foe. He stopped just out of sword’s reach.

The knight reached for his helm, and raised his visor. “Steve,” he said. There was no joy in his voice.

“Barristan,” Steve said.

Steel rang as it was pulled from its sheath. “Sometimes I wonder if the gods are laughing at us, or if they left us long ago,” Barristan said. He began to circle.

“I don’t want to kill you, Barristan,” Steve said. He matched him, step for step.

“I do not wish to kill you, either,” Barristan said. “Duty is difficult, but my oaths compel me.”

“You guided me through an oath once,” Steve said.

“I did,” Barristan said. He held his sword in a low guard, inviting an attack.

Steve almost missed a step as he saw the guard. He had seen it before. “Don’t do this, Barristan.”

“Duty is difficult,” Barristan said again. He was smiling slightly. “Oaths come first.”

They completed a circle, and Steve felt the moment upon them.

There was a heartbeat, a single instant in time, and all sound fell away.

Barristan lunged, swordpoint aimed for Steve’s head, but Steve was already moving, like he knew it was coming. He shifted just enough to avoid the killing blow and his fist came up in the same motion, striking Barristan in the jaw. The knight collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Steve stared down at the man he would call a friend, as sound returned to the world. He could hear the curse of Jon behind him, the muddled words of the spectators, and the cackling of the king. To the death, the king had said. To the death.

Despite how many held him up, Steve knew he was not a perfect man. He had lied, made mistakes, and failed those close to him. He had failed Bucky on the train. He had failed Tony in Siberia. He had failed the world in Wakanda. The idea of failing like that again churned his stomach.

For a moment, he weighed Barristan's life against Lyanna’s. For a moment, he judged the life of a grown man against the life of a young girl.

Bile rose in his throat. A life was not something to be weighed and measured, it could not be quantified and traded like a transaction. He looked up at the evil man above him, still laughing, cracked and peeling lips drawn back to show crooked yellow teeth.

“No.”

The cackling stopped. “To the death, I said,” Aerys growled out. “If you want the girl, kill the knight.”

“I said no,” Steve said. “I will not be your puppet, and I will not kill this man for you.”

“He dies, or the girl does,” Aerys said, almost hissing.

“Lyanna Stark is the only thing keeping you alive,” Steve said. “If I were you, I’d make an effort to keep her safe.”

“My walls keep me safe, my guards keep me safe, my armies keep me safe! Not some northern chit!”

“If that’s enough, then bring Lyanna out and kill her now,” Steve challenged, playing his last card.

Behind him, Rickard made a strangled noise in his throat.

Aerys - the King, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the Protector of the Realm - hesitated.

“It need not come to war,” Jon called. “Return Lyanna Stark, and-”

“LEAVE!” Aerys shrieked suddenly. “Begone from this place!”

“King Aerys-” Hoster tried.

“ARCHERS!”

Arrows were nocked, and bowstrings drawn all along the wall. Steve looked down at Barristan, and had a moment to make a decision. He leaned down and picked him up, throwing him over his shoulder with a clatter of metal. He wasted no time, not even mounting his horse, only slowing to grab her reins.

The lords had paused only long enough to ensure Steve was joining them, and they turned their horses to flee from the failed negotiations, riding for their own men. In a less serious situation, they may have looked askance at the man keeping pace with them as he carried another man in full plate.

“Draw back!” Hoster shouted as they neared the host. “Away from the city!”

The men obeyed the riverlord, turning in sections to put some distance between themselves and the bowmen on the walls. They galloped a ways along the Kingsroad, wary of a sally from the city, but it was not to be, and Jon called for a stop. He began to give orders to his captains, organising them.

Steve put Barristan over the back of his horse and jumped into the saddle, ignoring the range of looks he was getting from the men around them. “Rickard,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Later,” the Northman said, looking back at the city. He wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes. “Later.”

“What made you bring him?” Hoster asked, jerking his head at Barristan. “He’ll not serve as a hostage.”

“Aerys wanted him dead,” Steve said. “It wouldn’t have been right to leave him.”

“Foul deed,” Hoster said. He looked around at the steadily organising host. “Aerys would likely not be alive if it weren’t for the Bold.”

Jon finished spitting out orders, and trotted his horse towards them. “He may not have worth as a hostage against Aerys, but he’s still valuable,” he said. “Barristan Selmy’s word as witness is a powerful thing.”

Steve looked at Barristan’s unconscious form, and then back at the city. The Gold Cloaks still lined the walls, but Aerys had disappeared. “What’s the next step?”

“We continue raising our forces, and demand Lyanna’s return,” Jon said. “Your words may have ensured her safety, Lord America.”

“It was all I could think of,” Steve said, grimacing. If Aerys had brought her out to execute, he could have thrown his shield, tried to scale the wall and retrieve her, but that was a fool’s plan, fraught with risk.

“If he hands her over, we may yet avoid a war,” Hoster said. “If he doesn’t-”

“If he doesn’t, the North will remind him that it took dragons to conquer us,” Rickard said. There was a pain behind his eyes, but his jaw was set, and his arms were steady. Gone was the rage that had seized him after Aerys’ threats, now there was only grim resolve.

Around them the men finished organising, and Steve handed off Barristan to a pair who tied him to a spare horse. The host turned north, intent on leaving the Crownlands before any force could be organised to stop them, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. For the second time in three days, Steve fled King’s Landing.

The negotiations had failed, and difficult times loomed on the horizon. War was coming.

X x X

That night they made camp a few miles north of Hayford, off the road and with few fires and many sentires, behind a copse of trees. They faced a long ride through hostile territory until they could reach their own lands, and speed was their truest ally.

Steve found himself unable to sleep, wired despite the cooldown from the excitement of the last few days. He paced the camp, scaring years off sentries as he ghosted up behind them and drawing awed gazes from the men who saw him. He felt like there was some way he could have avoided the war, prevented it from happening, but that he had missed his chance, and thousands of innocents were going to suffer for it. He found himself missing his old friends, dreaming about dropping in on the Red Keep with the Avengers, Iron Man and Thor dropping in from above as Hulk broke through the front gate, using info scoped out by Nat-

He wrenched his mind off it, trying to refocus on something he could actually change. He had inspected the camp, run a lap of the outer perimeter. His horses had been seen to. There was little he could do except retire to his tent and fail to get to sleep.

He could always talk to someone.

The main tent still had lanterns lit within, and Steve had a feeling he knew who was inside it. There were no guards at its entry, and he stuck his head in. As he had guessed, Rickard was seated at the table, a bottle before him. He was alone.

“Lord Stark,” Steve said. “You mind if I join you?”

Rickard waved at the table in invitation, and Steve took a seat a few spaces down. “You called us by name, when you snuck past our guards into this tent,” he said. “Now I’m Lord Stark?”

“Didn’t seem like the time to be casual,” Steve said.

The Northman grunted, staring into his goblet.

“I wanted to apologise,” Steve said.

“You already apologised,” Rickard said, “and for what? Not freeing my daughter from the heart of Targaryen power? Not forcing a king to give up a hostage? Not killing an unconscious man?”

“I said I would. I didn’t.”

Rickard laughed, but it was hollow. “Aerys is a mad dog. We can’t trust his word, but we thought he would give my Lyanna back?”

There was silence, broken only by the sound of Rickard pouring another drink.

“I wanted to leap off my horse and kill Barristan myself in that moment,” Rickard admitted. “As soon as you downed him, I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

“He threw the fight,” Steve said, staring at the table.

“What?”

“He threw the fight. He used the same opening on me as he did in the melee,” Steve said.

“I still would have killed him. I would have felt ashamed afterwards, but I would have had my daughter back,” Rickard said. “I would have slit his throat in an instant.”

“It was what Aerys wanted,” Steve said.

“Aye. I knew it was a faint hope,” Rickard said. He sighed. “Yet I still hoped.”

“I have a brother,” Steve said suddenly. “His name is Bucky.” The light cast by the lantern wavered with a cool breeze.

Rickard’s gaze flicked up to him.

“He…fell in enemy territory,” Steve said. “He should have died. We all thought he did.” He found himself wishing for some of Thor’s high brow moonshine. “I didn’t find out until years later that he survived, but I got him back.” He met Rickard’s gaze. “Don’t give up hope, is what I’m saying.”

“We know well hope in the North,” Rickard said. “Hope that the winter will be short. Hope that the stores will last. Hope that summer will come.” He sighed, looking back to the bottle. “But I take your meaning.”

Steve could tell when a man wanted to be alone with his demons. “I’ll leave you be.”

Rickard pushed the bottle away from himself. “No, I must retire. Sitting here drinking does me no good. Thank you, Steve.”

“Rickard.”

The worried father rose and left the tent, making for his own, leaving Steve on his own. He was still not ready to sleep, however.

It seemed that he was not the only one reluctant to retire that evening. Despite the pace they had set in their flight from the city, there were men who gathered in small groups by their tents, talking quietly. Many watched Steve as he passed, whispering just lowly enough that he couldn’t fully make out their words, speaking of a ride, of a bridge, of Kingsguard.

His feet brought him to what passed for the medical tent, really just a normal soldier’s tent, but instead of being shared by three men, it was home to a wounded lord in a bedroll. The man who Steve thought to be the closest thing to a medic the force had was absent, leaving Stannis alone in the tent. It was lit by a candle on a small table.

Stannis appeared to be sleeping, but when Steve pulled back the tent flap further to enter he forced his eyes open. “Lord…Steve,” he said.

“Lord Stannis,” Steve said. He ignored the stool by the table to sit on the ground, knees held in the crook of each arm as he clasped his hands. “We haven’t been properly introduced, have we?”

“Our meeting did not much allow for it,” Stannis said. He pushed himself upright as much as he could, leaning back on a number of pillows, wincing as he did.

“I’m Steve Rogers, Lord America,” Steve said, offering his hand.

Stannis took it briefly, his grip firm despite the sweat of his brow and the paleness of his face. “Stannis Baratheon, of Storm’s End.”

“How’s your leg?” Steve asked. The wound on its own wasn’t the worst on its own, but the long ride through the night had worsened matters.

“The barber is concerned it may be infected,” Stannis said. His dark blue eyes hid any emotion he might feel about the news. “We shall see what a maester has to say once we make it out of the Crownlands.”

“What are your plans then? After we make it out,” Steve asked.

“I will have to make my way home,” Stannis said, speaking like it was a given. “My younger brother is there, and someone will need to command the garrison while Robert leads our army.” He glanced down at his wounded leg, but only for a moment.

“That’s a bit of a voyage,” Steve said. He knew Storm’s End was south of King’s Landing, but he had yet to see a proper map of the continent. “You’d have to leave from Gulltown and get through Crownlands waters.”

“I would go from Gulltown to Pentos, and then home,” Stannis said. “A direct voyage would be too risky.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it planned out already,” Steve said.

“I had much time to think, during our flight,” Stannis said, “and a need to take my mind off the wound.”

Steve held back a grimace. He would apologise, given the kid took the injury under his watch, but he couldn’t do anything to fix it, and he got the feeling he was the sort to appreciate deeds over words. “You need anything, while I’m here?”

“...I would appreciate some water, if you could call a servant,” Stannis said after a moment.

Steve spied an empty waterskin by the candle, and grabbed it. There was no need to bother a servant, and he left the tent in search of a water barrel. It did not take long to find, a helpful soldier pointing him in the right direction, and he soon returned to Stannis with his prize.

“Here,” Steve said, handing the skin over. He flicked some water from his hands as he took a seat on the ground once more.

“My thanks,” Stannis answered, taking a long pull. His gaze flicked between Steve and the skin. “Are the servants abed?”

“I’m not sure; I didn’t look for any,” Steve said.

There was quiet for a moment.

“Your squire,” Stannis began. “He showed courage, at the bridge.”

“He’s a good kid,” Steve said.

“He’s also the son of a bowyer,” Stannis said. “What made you take him on?”

“He asked,” Steve said.

Stannis blinked. “That’s it? He asked, so you took him as your squire?”

“He asked for a job as a servant,” Steve said. “The squire thing came more recently.”

“You raised your servant to your squire?” Stannis seemed more bewildered than offended.

“He earned it,” Steve said. “He killed the man who shot you, too.”

Stannis looked to his wounded leg, but said nothing.

“You want to hear about our trip through the mountains in the Vale?” Steve asked.

“I would,” Stannis said.

Steve made himself more comfortable. “It started because we were dropping in on the village my ward’s mother came from…”

Stannis listened as Steve told the tale of their adventures through the mountains. He was a gratifying audience, asking questions at the right times and reacting at the right moments. When it came to an end, he had seemingly forgotten the pain of his wound, and he was frowning in consideration.

“So you have a squire of surpassing skill, all because a smallfolk boy asked to be your servant,” Stannis said.

“People just need to be given a chance,” Steve said. “I guarantee you that for every legendary knight that songs are sung about, there were two smallfolk who could have been just as good.”

The candle began to gutter, having burned low over the course of the tale. Stannis was struggling to keep his eyes open, and Steve was reminded again that he was hardly older than Jaime.

“Thank you for the tale,” Stannis said, “and for the rescue. I have not said it yet, but it must be done.”

He didn’t brush it off as nothing, because it wasn’t. “Some things need doing,” he said.

Stannis nodded. “I worried that something ill was afoot, or that the entire scheme was another bit of poison from the court. I was only half right, it seems.”

“It can’t have been easy, taking a stranger’s word that you needed to flee the Keep,” Steve said.

“Elbert spoke well of you, as did Lady Lysa,” Stannis said. “I will remember what you have done.” His head began to droop.

“I’ll leave you to your rest,” Steve said, but a snore was his only answer. He took a moment to adjust the kid’s pillows to give him a better sleep, and blew out the candle as he left.

Outside, the moon had well and truly risen, and the camp had quietened. Speaking with Rickard and Stannis had calmed his thoughts, but there was still one more person he wanted to speak with before calling it a night.

Considering he was technically a prisoner, there was a distinct lack of guards on the Kingsguard’s tent. The man himself was seated on an upturned log before it, wearing a simple tunic and trousers as he ran a whetstone along his sword, using only the light of the moon to see. He glanced up as Steve approached, coming to a stop before him.

“Steve.”

“Barristan.”

The older knight gestured to a second log by him. “You just missed Lord Arryn.”

Steve took the offered seat, but did not speak. An owl hooted in the darkness.

“I did not expect to wake,” Barristan said, at length.

"You might have decided to trade your life for Lyanna's, but I didn't agree to kill you.”

“A knight is sworn to protect the innocent,” Barristan said. He held his sword up to look down its length. Satisfied, he turned it over, and began to work on the other side.

“You couldn’t have just taken Lyanna and snuck out?” Steve asked.

Barristan’s gaze flicked to Steve. “I sometimes forget that you are not one of us, for all your qualities.”

“Explain it to me then,” Steve said.

“To betray the King is to break my oaths,” Barristan said. “I chose that path that would see the girl freed while maintaining my honour.”

Steve felt anger bubbling in his gut. “He was laughing when you went down, Barristan. Laughing.”

“That is a reflection on his honour, not mine,” Barristan said.

“His ‘honour’ would have seen you dead,” Steve said.

“Oaths sometimes demand sacrifice,” Barristan said.

Steve held his tongue, lest he say something incredibly hypocritical given his track record on sacrifice.

“You are not of Westeros,” Barristan said. “Our ways are foreign to you, as yours are to us. I swore to serve the King, and I meant it, just as I swore to protect the innocent, and meant it.”

There was a discussion to be had here, where one culture met another, but it was not the time, and it was not the place. Not when he didn’t know what serving Aerys was actually like, and not when Barristan had intended to give his life to back up his morals. “Was Lyanna ok, at least?”

“I do not know,” Barristan said. “I was assigned to the Princes, following Harrenhal.”

“...so you never saw her.”

“I did not,” Barristan said. “I spoke of this with Lord Arryn.”

“Is Lyanna in King’s Landing?” Steve asked directly.

“I am sworn not to share the secrets of the King,” Barristan said, meeting his eyes for a moment, “but I have not held his confidence recently. I truly do not know.”

“If Lyanna isn’t in King’s Landing, then either Aerys is keeping her elsewhere, or he didn’t take her in the first place,” Steve said, more to himself than anything. “But then why threaten her when Rickard demanded her return?”

“Lord Arryn mentioned a meeting, once we are free of the Crownlands,” Barristan said. “I imagine it will be discussed there.”

A thought occurred to Steve. “Even without seeing her, you tried to give your life for her safety,” he said.

“I imagine it is part of why I am being given the liberty of the camp,” Barristan said. “That, and my word that I would not escape.”

“I still don’t agree that an oath should stop you from doing what is right,” Steve said, “but I can understand why you did what you did.”

“It is not an easy decision to come to,” Barristan said. He looked away from his sword, staring up at the moon. “I had to be reminded of the oaths that mattered.”

“Reminded?”

“Ask Jaime of the assassination attempt he foiled when you see him next,” Barristan said. He had a faint smile on his face.

Steve could sense a story there, but Barristan seemed unlikely to expand on it. “I’ll do that.”

Barristan finished honing his sword, sliding it back into its sheath. “Whatever else…I appreciate the chance to continue living,” he said, clearly bemused to be saying such a thing. “The rations today were sweeter than any feast I have attended.”

“You’re, er, welcome,” Steve said. “Sorry about the kidnapping.”

Barristan laughed quietly. “I will see you on the morrow, Steve.” He rose, and ducked into his tent.

Steve sighed, staring up at the sky. Robin was likely asleep by now, and it was time he did the same. A cool breeze rustled his hair as he made his way to his tent, deep in thought. There was much afoot, and he lacked answers, but he would find them.

X x X

The host rode north, safety growing closer every day with each mile they passed and saw no force mustered to oppose them. It was the day after they passed Brindlewood, the village where Steve had first met Keladry and Toby, that their luck ran out.

Steve rode towards the front of the column, listening as Barristan spoke with Robin, sharing small bits of wisdom that a squire ought to know but Steve didn’t. Jon and Hoster were sharing counsel up ahead, Elbert listening in, when a scout rider came galloping around a bend in the road ahead. Rickard called a halt immediately, shouting orders and putting the host on alert. The scout rode directly for the lords, and spoke with them quickly.

Fury took him closer, and he listened in.

“..banners were antlers, one of three hedgehogs, and one of a boar,” the scout was saying, slightly out of breath. “Maybe two hundred men on the road.”

“Infantry?” Jon asked.

“Aye milord.”

“Those are local Houses,” Hoster said, steadying his mount. “Could be what they could muster in time to catch us.”

“Or more could be waiting in ambush,” Rickard said.

“Either way, we cannot afford to be slowed now,” Jon said. “Not when we’re so close.”

“If there’s nothing to be gained by fighting,” Steve said, “why don’t we just go around?”

The lords exchanged glances.

“Two hundred men on foot, right?” Steve asked the scout. The man nodded. “They won’t have more mounted men than infantry, so any force waiting in ambush we can deal with, if there is one.

“Some might call it craven,” Hoster said, though his tone said he wasn’t one of them.

“Others would call taking a fight you don’t need foolish,” Rickard said. “Jon?”

Jon was thinking, chin resting on one fist.

“If you can avoid this fight, you’ve still got the option of forcing Aerys to be the one to declare outright war,” Steve said.

That seemed to sway the Vale lord. “I agree.”

Orders were given and scouts departed, looking for the best path around the soldiers ahead. The horses were given a moment to rest, regaining their wind in case they needed to gallop through an ambush. It was a tense wait, but the scouts returned, and with good news. Two hundred infantry seemed the limit of their opposition, and a path had been found around them.

It was an anxious ride, but one without combat, as they put their trust in speed once more and were rewarded. Horns blew, some scout or another catching sight of the body of cavalry and the dust they kicked up, but there was nothing the enemy could do, and soon they left them behind, returning to the Kingsroad. There was a sense of good cheer about the men, many wearing the smirk of someone who had just pulled one over a rival, and more shared jokes, knowing that at least some of their lives had been spared by dint of clever thinking.

That night, they passed into the Riverlands.

X

Steve listened as the debate continued. He sat in a quiet corner of the command tent, nursing a cup of wine that had a nice taste even if it didn’t do anything for him. The afternoon sun still lit up the walls, but servants had already placed lanterns within, just waiting to be lit.

Rickard, Jon, and Hoster were at the centre of it all, Elbert present as well, though all were engaged with different groups. It turned out that the host they had raised to ride to speak with the king was not only men-at-arms or knights, but minor lords too. It was these lords that were present now, making their opinions known and giving counsel.

“...does not matter if Lady Lyanna is there or not, the insult alone-!”

“...the scab still made hostages of those under guest right!”

“...know Lord Baratheon, and if you think he’s going to let the attempt on his brother’s life go…”

“...sister fuckers are a blight on the realm, and the Seven demand…”

A chair was plonked down beside him, and Steve looked up as Rickard made himself comfortable in it.

“Politics,” Rickard mused. “Some call it a necessary evil.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Steve said, eyes taking on a thousand yard stare as he remembered budgetary meetings and leave rosters.

“We need a way to make our stances known before we announce them, and for all we look down on women’s gossip, we lords are just as bad,” he said.

“That’s what this is all about then?” Steve asked. “Getting word out as to what you expect?”

“Aye,” Rickard said. “The Targaryens have forgotten, they had their dragons too long, but no one family can or should expect blind obedience. You must lead your lords, give them time to consider until they realise that following your commands is in their best interests.”

“So you listen to their advice, and speak with them,” Steve said, looking about the room.

“None of our most mighty vassals are here, or even those below them,” Rickard said. “But these men are loyal still, and they rode with us to challenge the king when called. That means something, no matter how few men they can call upon.”

“It is very different to my home,” Steve said.

“How do you do it there?” Rickard asked.

“It’s the office we’re loyal to, not the person,” Steve said. “And if the person in it doesn’t do right by us, we find someone else.”

Rickard contemplated his empty cup. “There might be something to that, to a point,” he said.

“I think it goes alright,” Steve said.

The two men watched the full tent for a few moments, a small corner of quiet in the din.

“I’m going to be blunt,” Rickard said. “You’re not one of us, and you owe us no fealty. You’ve got no horse in this race, and the smart thing to do would be to leave, especially if my guess of your intentions to the east has any truth to it.”

Steve was silent, listening and watching through cool blue eyes.

“You’ve shown yourself to be a warrior true, and it would be a fool who doesn’t see the value you hold,” Rickard said. He leaned forward, looking him in the eye. “Do you mean to join the war with us?”

“I said it to Brandon, and I said it to you before we rode back to King’s Landing,” Steve said. “You have my shield, for as long as you fight the good fight.”

“Riding to rescue hostages is very different to riding to war,” Rickard said, but he leant back and let out a breath.

“I know,” Steve said simply.

“So you do…” Rickard said. “Any other man I would command to join my muster and be done with it, but by your deeds you are not any other man. How would you join this war?”

Steve would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t been considering the most effective kind of force he could raise, but he had been thinking about Essos, not Westeros. “Let me pick one hundred men from your forces,” he said, “and I will forge them into a precision instrument to shatter important targets and take objectives that a traditional army might struggle with. I train them as I please, and I command them in the field.”

“You’re offering to craft a hammer to take out the foe’s knees,” Rickard said.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve said. “Give me a strong young man without training and I can make him the equal of your men-at-arms in two months.”

“I didn’t take you one for idle boasts,” Rickard said.

“I’m not.”

Rickard nodded slowly. “One hundred men. We give you objectives, but you command in the field.”

“It’s what I’m best at,” Steve said without arrogance.

“These men, you know they won’t follow you to Essos afterwards?” Rickard said. “Most of them have homes and families here.”

“Most won’t,” Steve said, “but some will, and I will have a core that I can build anew around.”

Rickard made a noise of agreement, gaze distant. “Any other man, I would tell no. But you, we owe, and you’ve made the quality of your character clear. You’ll have your men. Do you want knights, or men-at-arms?”

“I want them all,” Steve said. “I’ll take smallfolk too, if I think they’re the right fit. This force will not be limited by birth.”

“You’re borrowing trouble,” Rickard said, but it wasn’t a no.

“I said I’d forge them, and I meant it,” Steve said.

“I think I will be interested to see what you create,” Rickard said slowly. “Where will you take this force?”

“I had planned to stay with the army, and break off as needed once the men were trained,” Steve said.

“There will be those amongst the southerners that stay loyal to the king over their lord,” Rickard said, leaning in to speak quietly. “The early days will be about bringing them back into line by force.”

“I thought you said you had to give them time to realise your orders were in their best interests,” Steve said, half amused.

“Sometimes they pick wrong,” Rickard said, shrugging. “Not my bannermen, but they’ll still need to be brought to heel, and it will take time for Ned to bring my banners south.”

“Do you think it will be a problem? If the other kingdoms fall on you while you’re busy with them…”

“They’ll take time to muster, and we have the jump on them,” Rickard said. “But you need to decide which army you want to join in the meantime. Riverlands, Vale, or Stormlands?”

Steve tuned out the noise of the tent, considering what he knew. Going to the Riverlands or the Vale would likely be much the same, convincing lords that they had made a mistake in siding with the Targaryens through some aggressive negotiations. Afterwards, he would likely join the armies as the war began in earnest, and put his idea of a specialised force into practise.

The Stormlands though, they were isolated, and surrounded by likely enemies. If there was anywhere that he could use his force-to-be to its greatest extent, it would be there.

“Stannis needs an escort back to the Stormlands, doesn’t he?” Steve asked. “And afterwards, I’m sure I can find a few ways to get a few thousand men chasing their tails.”

“A few thousand men busy in the south is a few thousand that can’t be sent north,” Rickard said, scratching at his dark beard. “That’s no easy task, though.”

“It might not be easy,” Steve said, “but it’s what I do. I cut my teeth on making a nuisance of myself behind enemy lines.”

“Your deeds have earned you this, at the least,” Rickard said. “I hope you succeed.”

The thud of a fist on wood drew their eyes. The discussion in the tent was becoming more spirited, interrupting the various different conversations to draw them all into one group. All seemed to agree that something should be done, but few could on what, and none were shy about sharing their opinions.

“My lords!” Jon Arryn said, cutting through heated words with a steeley tone. Silence fell, as all turned to listen. “While we might have hoped to resolve these troubles without resorting to force of arms, that choice has been taken from us. The King has broken his Peace, and there can be only one answer.”

“At my daughter’s wedding, he made hostages of our kin under the guise of friendship,” Hoster said, hands splayed out on the table. “Far lesser insults have led to blood before.”

Eyes flicked to Rickard, expecting him to speak, but the northman was silent, anger in his dark eyes. He gave the slightest nod of his head to Jon.

“Thanks to Lord America, my heir is returned to me,” Jon said, inclining his head in thanks to Steve, and making him the brief centre of attention. “Lord Stannis and Lady Lysa were likewise freed, but Lady Lyanna remains. Her life is threatened by the King, even as he sends loyal knights to their deaths in a mockery of a duel.”

The audience grumbled and scowled. How Barristan had been treated sat ill with them, many of whom had grown up hearing tales of his exploits.

“Lord Stannis lies wounded even now,” Hoster said, “injured by the King’s own. His threats are not idle. If he freely commits such acts against the family of a Lord Paramount or Warden, we must look at other unsavoury rumours in new light.”

Steve listened as the two lords built their case against Aerys, guiding their bannermen to the conclusion they desired, appealing to their sense of honour and self interest. The balancing act interested him; for all the nobility in Westeros ruled as they wished in many cases, he was also witnessing how dependent they were on their subordinates. Aerys had lost the support of his, and now they were taking steps to ensure they did not lose their own.

“Aerys Targaryen slew my men and stole my daughter,” Rickard said, breaking his silence. His quiet voice seemed to fill the tent. “He acts like a wildling. We know how to deal with wildlings in the North.” He surveyed the men before him. “By his own deeds, it will be war.”

The few northerners in the tent rapped their fists against maille or wood, growling their approval. Another man stood, clad in the armour of a knight.

“Lord Arryn,” he said, speaking through a scar that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am not your mightiest vassal, and the force I can raise is meagre, but you will have them nonetheless.”

“Lord Tully,” said another man, big and bald, as he got to his feet. “I fought for you in the Stepstones. I will fight for you here.”

“Ser Robin,” Hoster said. “Your tenacity will be a boon, as it was against the Blackfyres.”

More and more men rose and pledged their support, and all were received graciously by their lords. The few northmen saw no need to speak, but they communicated with their lord all the same, with a nod or a hand on their sword. The outpouring of support was perhaps to be expected from a group that had been chosen to confront the King, and Steve wondered how the narrative they were building would be received by their kingdoms at large.

In time, the pageantry came to an end, and Jon spoke once more. “We do not do this for our own aggrandisement,” he said. “We do it because the oaths between king and lord, lord and vassal, they mean something. If Lady Lyanna is returned unharmed, I will gladly lay down my sword, but I fear that she will not be, not willingly.”

“Share what you have seen with your fellows,” Hoster said. “Tell the tales of Aerys’ callousness, of his madness, so that all the Kingdoms will know that our actions are just. Tomorrow, we go our own ways, and when we meet again it will be with the might of our armies behind us.”

The sun was setting as the lords committed themselves to rebellion, to war. Grim resolve was heavy in the air, but the men present were satisfied that their cause was righteous. Servants brought ale as they came to light the lanterns, and many partook, but it was not a celebration. All here were blooded men, and most had seen the truth of war. They were convinced they were in the right, and they were ready to kill to prove it.

Steve sighed, accepting the path that his decisions had led him down once more. Bucky would have been unhappy, but he would have been right there beside him, too. Westeros, for all its troubles, had been a breath of fresh air in many ways, free of greater responsibilities despite the shadow of homesickness. He was used to that though, and as he felt the burden of the fight settling on his shoulders once more, he found that he was used to that too.

He was a soldier, no matter how far adrift he had been cast. Good soldiers fought to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, and that’s what he was going to do.