The Riverlands army would be gone from Maidenpool within the week, staying only long enough to stock up on supplies and ensure that everything was in hand, but there were those who would be leaving much sooner. Steve’s band of nine meant to depart early on the very next day, and for that, there were matters of great import to take care of first.
For some, that meant acquiring supplies, or ensuring that they had what they needed to pass through enemy territory without drawing attention. For others, it meant availing themselves of the kind of luxuries and services that only a town had. For Toby, it meant having one last conversation with an ornery warhorse as he checked over hooves and horseshoes and made sure the horses all knew what to do.
For Steve and Naerys, it meant saying their goodbyes, if only for then, and an escape from the town to the privacy of the nearby countryside. There was a picturesque hilltop an hour’s ride away, often used for day trips by the local nobility, but which they had entirely to themselves that day. It had a view looking back along the shore towards the town. The afternoon sun that filtered through flowering trees was warm and pleasant on bare, sweat wicked skin as the two lovers took a moment to breathe after the first round of their enthusiastic goodbyes.
“Whoever decided to wait,” Naerys said, pulling her head from the crook of Steve’s neck as she rolled off him, “was a lackwit and a fool.” She joined him in staring up at the blue sky above.
Steve blinked the dots from his eyes. “I think it was us.” He shifted on the blanket they lay upon, feeling the divot they had worn into the mat of grass under it, as he tried to make his arm more comfortable for her head.
“Fools,” Naerys said again. Her breathing was steadily returning to normal, chest still rolling under Steve’s watchful eye. “I should have had my way with you the moment you woke in my home.”
He made a noise of agreement. His own breathing was steady, but the world still felt a bit like it was spinning. “I appreciate your concern for my virtue.”
“Ha!” she said, slapping him lightly on the hip. “No man who can do that thing with your tongue can lay claim to virtue.”
Steve snickered, remembering the wails he had pried from her, even as he could not help but blush as he remembered Nat and Tony very seriously telling him how to do it. He might have appreciated it more, had it not been over team comms on the way to a mission target.
“Where’s the waterskin?” she asked.
Steve cast his eye about, and saw that the picnic basket was off to his other side, just out of easy reach. He jiggled his arm, and Naerys shifted obligingly, allowing him to roll onto his side and reach out for it. He groped blindly within the basket, finding the skin right as Naerys decided to do some groping of her own. A pinch to his backside had him jolt, and he glanced back to see Naerys grinning at him, propped up on one elbow.
A stern look was her answer, but she was unrepentant, and Steve popped the cork from the skin, taking a sip before handing it over. Naerys drank greedily from it, and he watched as a heavy droplet escaped her lips, falling down her chin and neck to trail over one teardrop breast. He fought the urge to lick it up.
“I noticed a bookstore in town,” Steve said to her, as he settled back down.
“Oooh,” Naerys said, putting aside the empty waterskin. “What did they have?” She reclaimed her spot on his arm.
“I’m not sure, I was a bit busy when I noticed it,” Steve said. “The one in Braavos was nicer, but I figure they’ll have more than the average peddler. It was on the main street.”
“I’ll have to see,” she said. “My lessons with Betty and the others have been going well, so I want to get them a reward.” She grinned again. “I’m going to get a copy of A Caution for Ursa.”
“Poor Henry.”
“He ought to be thankful,” Naerys said, scoffing. “You are, are you not?”
“Very.” He had been surprised, the first time he had discovered just what kind of smut his gal was reading - not because she was reading it, but because it was something available at all. ‘A Caution for Young Girls’ was anything but.
“I thought so,” Naerys said, and the satisfied set of her shoulders was something easily felt.
“How’re those two going, anyway?” Steve asked. “I’ve seen them stepping out more.”
“I think they’re serious,” Naerys said. “Ursa was worried about the difference in status, but Yorick made sure she knew Henry was only the son of a hedge knight, and…”
For a time, they spoke of their companions and caught each other up on the happenings of the company - Kel had found herself wrangled along to the famous Jonquil’s Pool, a bathouse meant only for women, by Eleanor and her companions, while Walt had run into another old comrade, dragging Erik and Brynden off to drink and reminisce with them. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be a quiet night for them, but thankfully he also knew it wasn’t his problem.
Eventually, the sun started to show hints of setting, and their bellies started to remind them that they’d skipped lunch for other pursuits. There was a stream at the base of the hill, and they made use of it to clean themselves, dirty themselves on the bank, and then clean themselves again, before returning to their blanket to dress themselves and feast on the sandwiches and tarts that they had been given by Mooton’s cooks. By the time they had finished eating, the sun was beginning to turn orange.
When they had finished working off their meal, it was mostly orange, and starting to dip low over the town, just visible in the distance. The warmth was fading alongside it, and Steve pulled the corner of their blanket up and over them as Naerys cuddled into his side, smiling as she traced patterns on his bare chest, his own hand trailing lazily over her hip. The first hints of stars were just starting to become visible overhead.
“I want you to promise me something,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence
He stroked her hair, listening.
“Whatever trouble you run into down there, don’t treat - just take them seriously. Fight them seriously. They won’t be like the men just following their lords, or defending their homes. Kill them, and come back to me.” She tilted her head up so she could look him in the eyes. “Please.”
Steve swallowed. “I broke a promise, once. To come back. I…fell, and it took me a long time to return.” He closed his eyes, knowing that he could do nothing but accept the abrupt turn it meant for his life. “I can’t say that nothing will stop me from returning,” he admitted, opening his eyes, losing himself in the blue of his lover’s as she absorbed his words. “But I promise that I won’t hold back. If we find enemies, it’s either a trap by Aerys, or Rhaegar’s men holding Lyanna. It will take a damn sight more than a mortal man to keep me from returning to you.”
Snake quick, she struck, planting a kiss on the corner of his lips. “Good,” she said. “But if the Warrior himself blocks your path, I want you to take his head.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, before retaliating, and for a few moments, it seemed that they wouldn’t need the blanket to stay warm. They subsided though, thoroughly satiated by their earlier efforts, content to simply hold each other. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a song, hasn’t it,” he asked.
“It has,” Naerys agreed, eager and anticipatory.
Steve cleared his throat, thinking back to the days of the War, when things were simpler, before he had lost and been lost.
“We’ll meet again,
Don’t know when,
Don’t know where,
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…”
X
Dawn broke, spilling over a quiet town. After the revelry of the day prior, few were awake save the guards and the bakers. Of those few, nine were making their way out of the town via one of the smaller side gates. To look at them, they would mostly seem to be an ordinary group, dressed in the armour of hedge knights, even if each figure boasted two spare horses, and they ran the gamut from seasoned older men to enthusiastic young squires. Preparations had been made, farewells had been said, and now they rode south, the Red Mountains calling…but there were still decisions to be made.
“...the Stormlands may be more dangerous, aye, but the path is swifter, and most of the evidence of those we seek came from villages in or near the Boneway,” Brynden was saying. He spoke back over his shoulder, having volunteered to lead the party as they made their way. The early light made his still auburn hair appear more grey than it truly was.
Personally, Steve thought he was just tired of questions and raised brows over the black eye he bore, courtesy of his night out with Walt and other old comrades.
“We could skirt west of the Kingswood, and along the border,” Beron said. Like the others, he wore only his gambeson for armour, his plate and maille packed away across his spare mounts. “Much of the strength of the Reach will be investing the strongholds of the kingdom, or camped closer to the coast.”
“Most and much is not all,” Bronze Yohn said, answering the two riding ahead of him. “The Prince’s Pass, and the approach to it through the Reach, would see us avoid patrols and war parties. I would count the greater body of evidence in the Boneway as a reason to start our search elsewhere, besides - if our foe is truly attempting to remain unfound, would they not seek to gather supplies further afield?”
“Depends on the leader,” Brynden said. “You remember some of the fools in the Stepstones.”
Yohn gave a grunt of contempt, acknowledging the point. “Ser Steve, your thoughts?”
“You know the lay of the land better than I do,” Steve said, pitching his voice to be heard by those riding in front. “I’m more familiar with the Riverlands and the east of the Reach.” A dragonfly buzzed past Brooklyn’s nose, and she snorted at it.
The others with them - Kel, Robin, Howland, Osric, and Ren - kept their own counsel, either by habit, or because they felt out of place amongst the lords’ discussion.
“There are two major routes into Dorne,” Yohn explained. “The Prince’s Pass, and the Boneway, west and east. The first has the fortress of Kingsgrave, the latter, Blackhaven. Of them, the Boneway is more treacherous; it is steep and prone to rockfalls.”
“That means fewer soldiers in it,” Beron said. “The Pass is easier to linger in, so we would have more Dornishmen to avoid.”
“Only if Dorne still holds there,” Brynden said. “We do not know if we can trust the one who claimed to keep them there.”
There was grumbling at that. Yohn had been read in to the situation by Jon after Harrenhal, between his status and his presence on the journey, and he had not been well pleased to learn of the schemes unfolding in the background of the rebellion. Robert had done the same for Beron. For the expanding circle of those informed, the reputation of the royal house was starting to blacken.
“Then either way, it’s a gamble,” Steve said. “Through the Stormlands and this Boneway, or through the Reach and the Prince’s Pass.” He considered what they knew, the evidence they’d been sent, and what each possibility might imply about what they would find. If they picked the wrong approach, they might not make it back to the north before the battles were settled, but if they took their time and scouted both, they definitely wouldn’t. “We’ve got evidence of this group supposedly resupplying in the west as well as the east, right?”
“More often the east, but aye,” Brynden said. He shifted in his saddle, relieving a sore back.
“I don’t figure they’d go all the way out of one pass just to buy supplies from the other,” Steve said, brow furrowed in thought. “Even if they’re trying to disguise where their hideout is. They must be able to access either pass from it.”
“You think they’re based in the mountains proper,” Brynden noted. “It’s no easy land. Harsh, little cover and less water, and full of people who don’t like outsiders.”
Beron made a sound of realisation. “The Vulture Kings,” he said, before noticing Steve’s lack of familiarity. “Outlaw kings who raided the Seven Kingdoms, before Dorne was joined with us.”
“The last was a century ago,” Yohn said, unconvinced. “It is history.”
“But not all of their lairs were said to have been destroyed,” Beron said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “My father would tell tales- well, there were long rumours of old hideouts, filled with loot,” he said, before hurrying on. “For children, of course, but the lairs were real, and if one had been rediscovered…”
“It would be a shelter for them to hole up, unseen, even with enough men to hold a hostage, with paths to slip into the Marches,” Yohn said, not quite reluctant.
“Or enough to stage an ambush,” Brynden added pointedly. “And we still need to choose our path.”
“Would it be worth trying somewhere else?” Steve asked. “Rather than either of the two main passes.”
Beron, the closest they had to someone resembling a local guide, gave a hum. “The mountains are said to be riddled with goat trails, and any hideout would surely make use of them, but to stumble over the right one…” he shook his head.
“We’ll need to find some trace of our quarry, and that means asking around near where they were seen resupplying,” Brynden said in agreement. “Once we find a trace, then we can narrow in on any mountain path that might lead us to them.”
“I imagine a party of armed men would stand out in any village,” Steve said.
“The smallfolk see more than some would expect,” Yohn said. “They will have answers, should we approach them without relying on fear.”
Steve chewed at his lip. “Best guess, who would you expect to be waiting for us? Is there anyone that would stand out if this was Aerys or Rhaegar?”
“If we spy a Kingsguard, then this was Aerys,” Yohn said immediately.
“You assume that they hold to honour as you do,” Brynden said. “If Rhaegar has moved against his father, he will not have ignored the Kingsguard.”
Yohn gave a tsk. “I would not besmirch the conduct of another without cause,” he said, “but…Ser Lewyn is a loving uncle, and Ser Dayne is a boon companion to the Prince.”
“Arthur was pulled to guard the king, after I defeated Barristan,” Steve said.
“How did you learn that?” Brynden asked, looking back with a frown.
“The first time, I mean,” Steve said.
“Ah,” Brynden said. “And I would name Aerys as too paranoid to let the Sword of the Morning vanish into the mountains to guard a hostage.”
“He is said to care little for his good daughter, so he would perhaps think nothing of sending Ser Lewyn away,” Yohn said. “The state of the Queen’s court has long shown his disdain for such things.”
“Too hard to say, then,” Steve said.
Both of the older knights agreed without speaking.
Not that it truly mattered, he supposed. Whoever they faced, he would deal with.
“We’ll go through the Reach, and begin our search on approach to the Prince’s Pass,” Steve decided. “We’ll save time by not getting bogged down in fights, and it’ll be easier to pass as hedge knights travelling to join the fighting if we’re further removed from it.”
Had the three lords been in agreement, only for his words to override them, perhaps they would have argued against his authority, but it was not so. Brynden and Beron did not disagree with his reasoning, even if they had favoured the Stormlands and the Boneway. Between them, their path was soon confirmed. They would slip through the disputed lands between the rebel and loyalist forces, and then turn west to make use of the Kingsroad, skirting around King’s Landing before riding further west into the Reach.
When they were decided, Brynden picked up the pace once more, and soon they were cantering along the dirt path, their line stretching out as the sun rose in truth. They would likely miss the battles yet to be fought, but every warrior with them knew that what they rode towards could well decide the outcome of the war all the same.
X
On that first night, they camped by a bend in a river, riding long through the afternoon and making good progress. With their ability to rotate between mounts and the quality of their training, there was little but their own stamina holding them back. It was almost dusk by the time they finished making camp, and a meal of salted pork and fine bread from Lord Mooton’s kitchens was shared about to warm their bellies.
“I have missed this,” Yohn admitted, sitting on one of the logs they had found and dragged into place around their fire. “The demands of logistics leave no time for oneself when marching with an army.”
“And the lords,” Brynden said. “If I had to listen to one more Frey kiss my brother’s lordly arse…”
Beron snorted. “Did you hear, some of them were debating approaching my lord about a betrothal, should Lady Lyanna come to an ill end?”
Brynden made a sound of disgust, but it was overshadowed by Howland’s reaction. “Freys,” the small crannogman said, a quiet loathing in his voice.
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“Oh, you’ve met?” Brynden asked, amusement in the tilt of his head.
“They presume lordship of what is not theirs,” Howland said. He did not expand, focusing on oiling the half of his pronged spear, though it was clear that Brynden commiserated with the young lord.
It was only the five of them around the fire. Keladry had taken Robin, Osric, and Ren off to put them through their paces with the spear, though they would surely be returning soon as the light faded.
“Steve, I must ask,” Yohn began, stepping in before the mood could dip, “you claimed Orphan-Maker, but you do not use it.” He had been happy to acquiesce to Steve’s request to call him by name, if only the soldier would return the favour.
Steve pulled a face as he was reminded of the name of the Valyrian Steel sword he had confiscated from Peake. “I’m not a swordsman. I’m still figuring out all the tricks to using a hammer. I don’t need to start learning another weapon entirely in the middle of a war.”
Beron coughed, and then again, markedly fake.
“There are those who claim to have seen your hammer send half a dozen men into the air with but a single sweep,” Yohn said, voice dry.
“Three, at most,” Beron said, his tone saying he was joking, but his expression putting a lie to it.
“What do you plan to do with it?” Yohn asked. “There are many who would go to great lengths to acquire such a blade for their House.”
Steve glanced around the campsite. The sounds of sparring had stopped, but Kel and the others still weren’t back. He leaned in. “There’s a smith in King’s Landing who I’m told can reforge it. I’m going to have it made into a glaive.”
Yohn’s brows shot up. “For the lady…?”
“She’s a strong warrior,” Steve said. “I know the idea of women fighting is looked down on here, but I think you’d be surprised what would happen if you didn’t.”
“Perhaps,” Yohn said. “But we do as we do for a reason, and women are not suited to fight as men do.” He glanced over in the direction of the sparring, where the returning figures of their other companions could be seen. “In most cases.”
Steve only shrugged. If he was discussing the matter with someone less polite, he would point out the danger in assuming that strength in combat only came down to strength of arm, and if he was dealing with someone who was outright a cad he would offer to give a practical demonstration, but Yohn was neither.
“I have sparred with Lady Keladry,” Beron said to the Valeman. “Her skill with the glaive is formidable.”
Despite himself, Yohn was intrigued. “The tale about her duel with her betrothed, how true is it?”
“Not the one the men tell,” Brynden said. “If you heard it from a Northman, it likely is.”
“Hang on, what?” Steve asked, straightening.
Brynden didn’t quite grimace, but it was close. “Bored soldiers with enough sense to keep it quiet, but not enough sense not to tell it at all,” he said. “I’ve dealt with it where I find it.”
Steve found himself staring at the fire, narrow eyed. He thought the message had been sent, but it seemed he might still have to teach a few punks a lesson.
“Truly, Steve,” Brynden said. “It is dealt with.”
A dissatisfied hum answered him, but Steve nodded, agreeing to drop it. There was little he could do from there, and the others had returned to hearing distance besides.
“...Osric and Ren, clean yourselves up downstream, and then decide between the two of you who will take the first watch,” Kel was telling them. She saw the lords glancing over at her approach, heading three tired students, and inclined her head towards them.
“If I hear it again, I’ll send them to her for training,” Brynden said. “Those three may fall asleep in the saddle tomorrow.”
A laugh from Steve answered him. “I’ve put them through worse.”
“Have you any music?” Yohn asked. “I fought with a Crayne in the Stepstones, and his lute made many a tough day easier.”
“Nothing you’d appreciate,” Steve said. He regretted not having a chance to debut the instrument he had recreated before Maidenpool, and he had brought it along on the ride south, but it was not the sort of thing to be appreciated in the quiet of the night by the fireside. “Only something for battle, or diversion.”
The description interested the lords, and they tried to guess what it could be. The conversation continued on as the moon started to rise, but try as they might, they could do little more than pry from Steve that it was an instrument from his home, lacking in strings, yet not a drum. Eventually, after all had eaten and sentry duty had been established, they retired. They still had a long journey ahead of them.
X
Another night saw another campfire, this time amidst a copse of trees that protected them against curious eyes and the cold night wind. They had crossed into the Crownlands days ago, making good time, and had done well to avoid any loyalist patrols.
Most had already retired to their bedrolls, with only Steve, Yohn, and Brynden sitting around the fire, talking quietly. They spoke of small things, the day’s travel, the old signs of passing soldiery, the enormously fat pig they had seen in a farmer’s field. They spoke of larger things, too.
“The Free Cities would never stand for it,” Brynden said, shaking his head. The firelight played across his face, a healthy stubble on it. “Each time a foreign power tries, they put aside their differences and war against them.”
“A foreign power, yeah, but what about someone independent?” Steve asked. His own beard had left stubble behind days ago. “They’re held by pirates all the time.”
“Pirates feud and squabble, and aren’t likely to think to impose tariffs and taxes,” Brynden said. “Any organised group to seek to take the Stepstones would always be suspected of working with this or that kingdom.”
“What about a group that had the backing of Westeros and Braavos?” Steve asked.
“Such a group could never afford the aid of the Braavosi,” Yohn said, before giving up the pretence that they were speaking in hypotheticals. “You are giving service that cannot be paid off with harbour rights and warehouses, and aye, this adventure will have,” he hesitated a moment, “those with power owing you even more, should we succeed, but Braavos? No.”
“Braavos has many temples, but the most powerful is the Iron Bank, and coin is their god,” Brynden said. He shook his head.
“This seems like something cultural I don’t have the context for,” Steve said.
“The Rogue Prince sought to rule the Stepstones once,” Yohn said. “He had a dragon, and powerful allies to help. He still ultimately failed, and lost enormous amounts of blood and treasure in the effort.”
“So did his enemies,” Brynden added. “The dragons may be gone, but any sign of a new King of the Narrow Sea would see the Three Daughters move quickly against it.”
Steve considered their words. He was frustratingly blind on the matter and the history of it all that might impact the reaction to the venture he was considering. “What if it wasn’t a proper kingdom,” he asked. “What if it was just another group to take an island and hold it amongst all the pirates?”
The two lords were quiet for a moment, not quite taken aback, but still considering his words. A branch in the fire cracked and fell into the coals, and an owl hooted in the darkness.
“That wouldn’t spur a response - not from the Free Cities as a group, no,” Brynden said slowly.
“But what would such a thing gain you?” Yohn asked him. “The gold, the men needed to take and hold an island would be prohibitive.”
“A place for Liberty,” Steve said. He was staring at the fire, watching the coals as they smouldered. “I mean to free slaves, and some will want to join the fight.”
From another man it would have seemed to be some self-aggrandising boast, but from Steve, men listened.
“It will cost me blood and gold,” the soldier acknowledged, “but the price of freedom has always been high, and it’s one I’m willing to pay.”
“That is a battle one could fight forever,” Yohn said.
Steve looked up from the fire to the men he shared it with. “It is. But I’d bet I’m not the only one who would.”
Silence fell, as the foreigner’s words faded and the two lords considered them. They shared a glance. They were not young men, not anymore, but that did not deafen them to the call to adventure - they were there now, were they not? - and they both knew that if a man like Lord America put out the call, many would answer.
They did not put voice to it, for they could not help but think that they would be amongst them, if only they could.
X
The Reach was much as Steve remembered it; flowering fields and warm sunlight, picturesque and untouched by the war proper. They had passed into it only a day ago, happy to be past King’s Landing and the increased traffic that had busied the roads around it. The tenth month of the year was fading, and Steve stood with Robin a short way from their camp for the afternoon, set up early after one of their horses had picked up a troublesome rock in their shoe.
Steve pulled back his bow, breathing steady, and loosed an arrow at the stump that was their target. It hit, but not well, and the shaft broke with the impact.
“I see what you mean,” Robin said. “You really do lose a lot by using normal arrows.”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “I’ve still got one arrow left from the lot your father made for me, but I’ve been making do for a while now just for practice.”
Robin frowned. “That could teach you bad habits.”
“Aye ser,” Steve said.
The squire ducked his head, blushing. “I’ll keep an eye out for some good wood for arrows,” he said. “I think I can do something about the breaking, too. A bendier wood might do some good.”
“Thanks,” Steve said. He watched as his squire put an arrow to his own string, loosing it at the stump with barely a pause to aim. It split the arrow Steve had just fired. “How did you go with Kel, earlier?”
He pulled a face. “I’m never going to win any duels with a sword.”
“But did you learn anything?” Steve pressed.
“Yeah,” Robin said, dragging out the admittance like it had been pried from him by force. “I got the spear disarm that Kel was trying to teach me working against Ren.”
“Good,” Steve said, resting the lower tip of his bow on one foot as he watched Robin string another arrow.
“Ren is as bad with a sword as I am though,” Robin said, not quite complaining.
“So she’s at a good level for you to practise with,” Steve said.
Travelling in a smaller party as they were, Ren’s secret hadn’t lasted. It had come out just before they had headed west from the Kingsroad to cross the Blackwater Rush, the river that flowed into the bay at King’s Landing. Despite the cover of bathing and bunking with her cousin, it was noticed when she couldn’t grow even a hint of stubble. Ren had admitted to it when awkward questions were asked of Steve, but after a few days of stilted conversation, things had returned mostly to normal.
Robin grumbled, but only half-heartedly.
“You’re not married to the spear, either,” Steve reminded him. “If you want to look for something else, we can.”
“No, it’s fine,” Robin said quickly. “But uh, could I learn what you’re teaching Ren, too? With the long dagger?”
“Yeah, we can do that,” Steve said, and his squire grinned. “Now come on. I want to see if you can shoot that dead branch off before we head back to give Kel her birthday present. I’ll show you the move I used yesterday against Brynden if you can.”
“You’re on!”
X
Dorne was a dry place, Steve was finding, the landscape forbidding, and they had not yet entered the kingdom. He remembered the two Dornish he had befriended at Harrenhal, the Vaiths, and how they had spoken of their home, near to the deep sands in the centre of the kingdom, and was glad they needn’t go so far. The copper red rocks of the Prince’s Pass had a way of reflecting the sun and setting the air to shimmering with a heat haze; he could imagine how much worse it would be in the middle of the desert. They had been quick to decide to investigate every location named in the evidence they had been sent before venturing into the Pass proper, to give themselves time to acclimatise if nothing else, but it seemed that the time would soon come to don their armour and brave the heat.
“Three days ago?” Steve asked, questioning the old man intently.
“Three days,” the old man confirmed, perched on a bucket before his home. He had the look of a Dornishman, for all that he lived in the Marches north of the Red Mountains. “They made comments about my daughter, and stole my goat.” He wet his lips, and took another sip from the waterskin that Steve had offered him.
“Were they armoured?” Steve asked. Nearby, Brynden and Kel listened silently, while Yohn and Howland supervised the horses at the edge of the village they had found themselves in. Beron and the others were speaking with others in the village, seeking other stories. “Did you recognise their sigils?”
A three toothed grin was his answer. “They don’t like the heat, those boys. No plate, no gambeson, no colours. But they’re not from round ‘ere.”
“You think they were knights?” Steve asked.
“Pshaw,” the old man said. “They’re killers. Don’t know about knights.”
Steve shared a glance with his friends. They had found a few who would speak about strangers under arms in other villages, and some who were willing to lie about it in hopes of coin, but this was the best lead so far. “Did they come from within the Pass?”
“Yep. Less than a day in.”
“How do you figure that?” Steve asked.
The old man grinned again. “Goat came back a day later, didn’t it. No rope will hold that rascal.”
Steve huffed a laugh, and slipped the old man a silver coin, hiding the motion in the retrieval of his waterskin. “You look after yourself, old timer.”
The weathered old man hummed, tucking the coin a way. “Thankee, m’lord, from my old bones too. You’ll want the east, when you go lookin’.”
“Thanks,” Steve said, giving him a nod. He turned away, and with the others, started to make for their horses. “What do you think?”
“If this isn’t them, I don’t know what it could be,” Brynden said.
“He would have known if they were Dornish troops,” Kel said. She shared a look with the experienced lord. The spars they had shared over their journey had seen each knocked down at times, and a mutual respect had grown from it.
“I agree,” Steve said. They reached their horses, finding the others all waiting for them.
“Promising news,” Beron told them, grey-blue eyes eager.
“Us too,” Steve said. “The Pass?”
“And an old woman who remembers her grandmother telling a story about a secret refuge.”
“It all lines up,” Steve said, and none disagreed. He gave a final nod. “Then let's get to tracking.”
“If they’re as close as the man said, I’ll have their trail today,” the riverlord said. “How do you want to make the final approach?”
“If we find what we expect, I’ll challenge them openly,” Steve said. “Draw out as many as I can to make our job easier once we get inside.” He’d never fought in what some other vets called the sandbox, but he had listened to the tales they’d told of going into the mountains, and of the difficulties they’d faced in cave fighting. They may not be facing claymores and tripwires, but a cunning enemy could still make life hell.
“Gonna call them goatfuckers again, ser?” Robin asked, failing to hide a smirk at the memory.
“Something like that,” Steve said, ignoring the looks that Yohn and Brynden were giving him. “They won’t be able to ignore me.”
They did not linger in the village. After weeks of travel, the scent of their quarry was finally before them, and they were eager to hunt.
X
For all that the Prince’s Pass was a major route of travel, there was little cause for any who used it to stray from it, and Brynden was quick to find the tracks left by those that did, just where the old man had directed them. They had followed the tracks, perhaps a dozen strong, past an old round tower long abandoned, and then along a narrow trail through the foothills and into the mountains proper. The trail grew ever steeper and narrower as they went, forcing them to travel single file, and Steve made another note to do something nice for Toby as their mounts plodded on without complaint or misstep.
It was late afternoon when they found it. Tucked away where two small spurs split and shadowed by a larger ridge, there was a cave entrance, a tall, narrow thing that perhaps two men abreast could fit through. Before it was a flat space that seemed man made, if long ago, that was less uneven than the approach. To get to it, one would have to approach along a long gully that dipped in and out of full view of the cave entrance. There were no sentries at the entry, however, only a collection of crates and a makeshift stable, not a strong structure but more a circular fence with a shade cloth over half of it, sheltering over a dozen mounts. None of them seemed to be local horses, or suited for the climate.
It had not taken long for their plan to be hammered out, as they spied on the entrance from a distance, hidden behind an outcrop in the shifting landscape. They retreated to prepare, donning their arms and armour, and then all that was left for Steve to do was wait as the others got into position. He shifted, checking over his armour, his hammer in its harness, shield on his arm, and his instrument tucked under the other. All was ready.
A bird call came, echoing down the gully and bouncing off the walls. It was time.
The soldier began to advance, not bothering to try and conceal his approach. Soon, he would near the hideout entrance. Soon, he would know if they were mounting a rescue, or walking into an ambush. Soon, it would be time to fight and kill.
But first, he had to debut the instrument he had been working on for the last four months.
It wasn’t quite right - there had been a miscommunication between him and the weaver, and so instead of the Irish tartan of his mother’s childhood that she had once told him about, the bag was instead covered in stripes of red, white, and blue. If he had been seen with it back in America, he would have been on the front page and mocked mercilessly for days, he was sure. But he wasn’t back in America, he was in Westeros, and he had psychological warfare to wage.
He came to a stop just shy of the makeshift stables, still without any sentry to watch them, and brought the blowpipe to his mouth. Then, he began to play.
First came the drone, and hot on its heels was the skirl, as the sound of bagpipes rang out over the Red Mountains, announcing Steve’s presence and his challenge to all nearby. He didn’t know many songs, but he had picked up a couple during a NATO training exercise, and for now that was enough as he played a quick march song to hurry his foes along.
He had almost finished the song as the first of them came stumbling out, two men scowling and angry at the racket he was making, clutching at their ears. Their gambesons were black, and their helms sitting loose. One was still fastening his sword belt, but the other saw Steve immediately, and his face purpled.
“Who the fuck are-”
Steve made a rude gesture, and launched into the end of the song with verve, and that was the end of their patience. They rushed him, steel bared, and Steve killed the first with a kick to the head. The second took an arrow through the neck, courtesy of Robin from his position above the gully. The wail of his pipes faded away, and silence returned to the mountains. For a long moment, there was nothing, no further foes emerging, and Steve looked up to where his companions were laying in wait. Beron shrugged, and Steve shrugged back. He gave one last blast from his instrument, a discordant note that pained even his ears, and then started to set it down on the corpse of the man he had killed, careful to keep it out of the dust. He would give them two minutes before he went in.
A minute later, his patience was rewarded. A pack of men filed out from the cave entrance, alert but joking and rough housing. None of them wore helms. Their attitude changed when they saw the corpses of their fellows, Steve standing before them in open challenge. The dozen of them quickly spread out, one dropping a wineskin, swords ringing clear from sheaths as they warily began to approach the man who wore the white star.
Steve pulled his hammer free, unconcerned as they approached, and gave it a swing. It set the air to thrumming with its speed, making the men approaching him hesitate, but more importantly masking the sound of Howland slipping down the spur walls behind them, pronged spear held low. Yohn and Beron were close behind, swords ready, and Steve judged it time.
His hammer spiked the first man down into the ground, and he used its momentum to turn and spin into a broader swing, sending two more flying. Another man thought he saw an opening in the move, only to be cracked in the head by a smooth stone and collapse, while another took an arrow to the temple, joining the dead. Yohn decapitated his man from behind while Howland speared his through the neck, Beron driving his war pick, hook first, deep into the skull of his chosen foe with a single strike. The rest were dead almost before they could realise they were outnumbered as well as outmatched.
Kel and Brynden emerged from where they had lurked in cover behind Steve, ready to join the fight if necessary. A whistle called Osric up from where he had been guarding the horses, and by the time he had joined them, Robin and Ren had slipped down into the gully with them.
“We go in before they have time to prepare,” Steve commanded. “There’s no telling what traps they have waiting, or if they’ve got another exit somewhere. No one goes anywhere alone. Understood?”
“Aye Captain,” came the practised answers from Osric, Ren, Kel, and Robin.
The others nodded their acceptance, and then Steve was leading the way into the dark.
X
The hideout was no simple cave, but a full network of tunnels. The darkness was deep, and cast back only by the supply of oil soaked torches that their foes kept. It was impossible for their band of nine to clear the tunnels properly, but luck was with them, as it seemed that whatever group they fought against had only used parts of the network. They followed the tracks left in century old dust, ignoring undisturbed paths as they progressed.
The ambushes were many, and twice their stolen torches were close to guttering before they could find more. Blood painted the stone walls in between long stretches of nothing, and it was hard to tell how much ground they had covered. At one point they came across a large chamber, gaps in the ceiling above showing sections of open dusk sky, and an ancient petrified tree dominating its middle. Another time they might have lingered to rest, but not after they found a lady’s embroidery and a mug of tea abandoned by gnarled white roots, still warm.
They spent caution for haste, and those fighting beside Steve were given a clear view of what happened when a super soldier was set loose in tunnel fighting. There was little room to swing a hammer, but one would be hard pressed to pick which foes fell to that, and which to his fists.
After what felt like hours, they found them.
A solid wooden door barred their way, and it even held up to the first blow from Steve. The second cleared the way with a great crash, and he led the way through, Kel close on his heels, the others spilling into the chamber that had been revealed shortly after.
They were outdoors again, standing in what had once been an antechamber, but had long since been worn down by the elements, leaving only the ruined remains of walls that had once been built up against the rock of the mountain. The moon cast its light down on them, and somewhere nearby, Steve could hear water flowing.
In the middle of the area, three figures stood with horses, caught in the act of saddling them. One of them was another man in a black gambeson, and upon their entrance he had put himself between them and the two women he was with.
One of them was a stranger, but the other was Lyanna Stark.