The men of the Reach hunted and harried them from sunrise to sunset, nipping and worrying at their march like a street mongrel at a long dried bone. With their advantage in numbers, they could afford to rotate their riders, pressuring them without respite. The Stormland cavalry found themselves sorely tested, and three times an enemy lance made it through their protective screen. Twice the white star banner saw them off, once through outmanoeuvring the foe and giving them no choice but to break off their attack, and once when Lord America shattered them with hammer and shield. Some claimed to have seen the foreign lord throw one knight at another, horse and all, but that was clearly exaggeration.

The third time, the enemy found an undefended section of the march, and killed dozens before being driven off. Half a day was lost in recovery, and all the while horns sounded from the countryside around them, telling of the ongoing conflict. The pressure was beginning to tell, but onwards they marched, pushing man and beast as best they could. The only other option was to stop and offer battle, and that was no option at all.

Then, after a long week of pursuit and running battles, it stopped. A cautious hope spread through the army, but worry went with it, and Lord Baratheon dispatched scouts in force to find the cause of their relief.

That was a secondary concern to Steve in that moment, however, as he stitched closed a hole in the cheek of one of his men. Sitting at his side in the wagon as it trundled along, Ed watched with morbid curiosity as the gash was slowly closed.

“...want to be careful with the tightness,” Steve told the man who had been working as Corivo’s assistant ever since the raid on the Blueburn depot. “Too tight is as bad as too loose, especially with the wound in a location like that.”

“How do you tell?” Ed asked. He had abandoned his blond beard after getting blood in it one time too many, working in his new role, but was taking well to the job.

“Experience,” Steve said, pulling the needle through skin carefully. Working in the back of a moving wagon as he was, it took more than a surgeon’s steady hands to do the job properly. “But we’ll get you that on simpler injuries, on firm ground.”

The patient, a middle aged man-at-arms from the Vale by the name of Marron, grunted as if voicing his agreement. He was scowling heavily.

“You alright there Marron?” Steve asked.

“Bandits, no Walt, no wound. Ninepenny, Walt, wound. Clans, no Walt, no wound,” he said, very carefully, talking out the uninjured side of his mouth. “Reach, Walt - wound.”

“That’s some bad luck,” Steve said, tying off the last of the stitching with a delicate pair of needle nose pliers. “What was the other injury?”

“Cheek.”

Steve glanced at the other cheek, but it was unmarred by anything but the sun. “Wh- oh.”

Ed was a moment slower, but he coughed when he understood, hiding a laugh. “I’ve done a few cuts and gashes,” he said to Steve, “but I didn’t think we could do the same to an injury like this.”

“It’s a tricky one,” Steve said. Carefully, he stowed the pliers and the needle in the satchel they came from, borrowed from Corivo. “And Marron, you’ll be on soups and mashed roots for a bit, but I’ll slip you some Arbor to make it bearable.”

Marron brightened, before bringing his fist to his heart.

“You’re good to go,” Steve told him. “I’ll be telling Osric that you’ll be in the fallback squad until you can respond to orders though.”

The Valeman hopped carefully from the wagon, going on his way, and the two of them began to tidy up the wagon for the walking wounded they had temporarily evicted to return.

“He’s lucky,” Ed said, gathering up used bandages. “I saw a man who got half his jaw cut through…” he trailed off, shuddering .

“There’s no good way to be injured in war,” Steve acknowledged, “except maybe slipping and breaking your ankle the morning the commander orders a suicide charge.”

Ed snorted, and they made short work of the wagon bed. Something was clearly on his mind however, and it was only when they were finishing up that he asked. “How come you went with the open faced helms, with what face wounds are like? I know it wasn’t coin.”

“Perception,” Steve said, happy that Ed had felt able to ask. “A closed face helm offers more cover, but you can’t see doodly, and what you can’t see will kill you. If I ever need to outfit a heavier force, that’s what I’d go with, but for us…?”

A look of understanding came over Ed’s face. “Right. Thank you ser.”

“No worries,” Steve said. He handed over the satchel of medical tools. “Clean the tools we used, and any that you think could use it, before you return it.”

“Yes Captain,” Ed said, stepping off the wagon carefully, mindful of his mostly healed leg injury, and going on his way in search of a water wagon.

Steve had no urgent duties calling him, and the men were under the watchful eyes of Kel and Walt as they kept watch over their section of the march. He took the time to simply walk, thankful for the cool weather of a sluggish Spring. He still found the seasonal cycles of this world a strange thing to wrap his head around, but Spring was Spring, no matter how long it took to arrive.

Despite the fine weather, the tramping of thousands of men still had a way of stirring dust into the air, and Steve found himself leaving the main of the column behind, taking up position on a small hill. Under the shade of a lone tree, he watched the army march by, soldiers, servants, wagons, strings of horses, nobles - they all marched north, fleeing from a fight they didn’t want to get to a fight they did. His fingers itched for a brush.

A rider broke off from the road, heading towards him. They wore the rough garb of a soldier on their day off, but Steve knew that moustache, and he frowned in thought as he watched Corivo approach. It did not take him long to join him atop the hill.

“Corivo,” Steve said. “How are you?”

“I am well, Steve,” Corivo said. He dismounted, tying his reins off at the tree, leaving his mount to chew placidly at the long grass. The doctor took a seat on another protruding root, joining Steve in looking down at the passing army. “How was the cheek wound?”

“He’ll have trouble eating for a bit, but it should heal without too much of a scar,” Steve said. He eyed the Myrman for a moment. There was always work for a doctor, even days after a battle, and he would not have ridden up here idly.

“I have just been bribed,” Corivo said, like he had been offered lunch, “by a man very interested in your feats.”

Deliberately, Steve looked away from him, back towards the army. “Yeah? What’d you tell him?”

“That his price was far too low for a man of my stature, and that he would have to double it,” Corivo said.

“How’d that go?”

“He gave me thirty five silver stags,” Corivo said, tapping a pocket that jingled with the sound of coin. He tsked. “A paltry figure to be sure, but he had no more on him, and the pouch was not his to begin with.”

Steve gave a hmm, considering. “What did he look like?”

“Young. A knight, but a poor one. Hedge knights, I think they are called,” Corivo said, shrugging. “I would know him if I saw him again.”

A poor hedge knight could work for anyone, and he could think of a few interests off hand that would want to know more about him in this army alone. “What did he want to know?” Steve asked.

“He asked after your exploits,” Corivo said. “Some I had heard only in passing - is it true you killed a man with a single punch? - but I was more than happy to tell him that such things were of course great exaggerations, or the product of luck.”

“Good,” Steve said, habit keeping his face blank as he thought. Someone was looking into him, trying to find out - what, if the stories of his deeds were true? How much of a threat he was? If he was worth offering a daughter to? “Was that all they asked?”

“For now,” Corivo said. “The knight seemed to think it a waste of his time, but…”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. It wasn’t the knight who would be making decisions. “Something to keep an eye on.”

“I have handled the matter to your satisfaction, then?” Corivo asked, dark eyes watching him. “Things are handled differently here in Westeros, but you are not Westerosi.”

“No, you did right,” Steve said. “I hadn’t thought to tell the company how to handle these things, but you handled it as well as you could have.”

“You need not worry about them approaching another,” Corivo said.

“Why, you think they’re happy with what they got from you?”

“No, because we would have heard the commotion when your men set upon him for the insult,” Corivo said, the white of his smile bright against his olive skin.

Steve shook his head, a faint smirk ghosting across his face. “If you’re approached again,” he said, serious now, “then ask for more money, and see how much they’re willing to pay.”

“I will do so,” Corivo said, apparently at ease with the idea. “What of the coin?”

“Give half of it to Naerys, and have her add it to the company pot,” Steve said after a moment.

“Effective,” Corivo said, nodding. “I will have to make myself open to bribery more often.”

“That’s the plan,” Steve said. A thought occurred to him, and he frowned. “Did you come straight here after the knight left?”

“All know that the Essosi wear strange fabrics and stranger colours,” Corivo said, dismissive. “If one watches to see if their informant has rushed off to his master, they will not see the dull Westerosi, no matter how fine his moustache.”

“You’ve dealt with this sort of thing before,” Steve said, appraising. Accepting the bribe and reporting it was one thing, but this was another.

“The politicking of a sellsword company pales next to that of a trade consortium,” Corivo said.

“A trade consortium,” Steve said, prompting. The doctor had made the odd comment here and there, implying things about the life he had left behind in Myr, but did not care to speak much about it.

“There is a reason I left the family business to my little sister to inherit,” he said. His knee bounced as he looked up at the boughs of the tree shading them. “When companies work together, a doctor may be wooed like a comely maiden, but profit sharing negotiations between trading partners can be cutthroat.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Steve said, even as he filed the little tidbit of information away. Corivo’s knee kept bouncing, but he didn’t answer. “How’s Gerold’s arm doing?”

“Good,” Corivo said, his bearing easing. “Another few days, and he will have full movement…”

They spoke for a short while more, catching up on medical matters for the company and making plans for the stretcher bearer squads that Robert had decreed would be formed. The army continued to snake by, so many men that even at a quick march there was no risk of being left behind. It was only the return of the scouting force that brought an end to their conversation, the men riding along the line with purpose in their spines.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Despite their hurry, there was no panic to them, nor any evidence of fighting, and Steve shared an optimistic look with Corivo. Perhaps the news would be good.

X

The news was good. Fully half of the Reach army had broken off their pursuit, turning east, led by banners of green and gold. Those that remained were led by banners of orange, three black castles upon them - House Peake. When Steve heard the news, he did not smile, but something about the look on his face still made those who saw it nervous. When he spoke with his squire, telling of the lord he had seen, he was answered with ghoulish glee.

With their forces halved, no longer could the Reachmen hound them so. Instead, their tactics changed to a more insidious harassment, clashes between heavy cavalry turning into struggles in the dirt between scouts and outriders. Foraging became a thing to do in force, even as Lord Baratheon gave orders to strip the land bare as they passed, denying what they could to their pursuers. It was an empty country that they rode through, the few villages they came across newly empty and abandoned. Some were puzzled at how word of their coming had arrived in time for them to flee, but Lord Errol was not one of them. It was a small thing easily done to ensure that a man like Lord America had no reasons to take issue with the behaviour of soldiers on a march through enemy territory.

A full month passed as their march north continued. The men were not pushed to their limits, but nor was it an easy journey, and slowly but surely their lead grew. Some scoffed at the sluggishness of the Reachmen, but those with keener minds or the weight of experience saw the truth. A battle was no longer in the Reachmen’s interest, not when they could join with the foes surely waiting for them in the Crownlands and Riverlands. By the time they crossed the Roseroad and grew close to the Mander, Lord Peake was nearly a week behind them.

The best crossing of the river, Bitterbridge, was far to the southwest and would require a fight to cross besides, and had long been dismissed as an option. Instead, scouts rode out to confirm the presence of this or that bridge remembered by anyone who had ever had cause to pass through the area. Some were found to have been washed away by Spring melts coming down from the Tumbleton hills, others were in disrepair, some had never existed at all, but some few were found to be promising.

Of those few, Lord Baratheon chose a bridge by a small town known by its residents as Mastford, and one cool morning, he sent Lord America out to scout the way.

X

When Steve and his band rode up to the town of Mastford, they did so casually, without haste and with their weapons stowed. The town boasted a palisade wall, and even a tower to one side of the main gate. There was a man with a bow within it, and he watched uncertainly as they approached, shading his eyes against the midday sun.

“Hello there,” Steve called, bringing his column to a stop before the open gate. The road was dirt, but hard packed as it entered the town, and the buildings he could see were tidy and well made. “I am Lord America. I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge here.” He kept a pleasant look on his face, no matter how much it pained him to introduce himself in such a way.

The man in the tower half turned his head, but didn’t take his eyes off the soldiers outside his home. “....Seeeeeeb?”

“What?” came the answering call from beyond the wall, out of sight.

“Get the elder! There’s a buncha soldiers here.”

Another pale face peered out from behind the wall. The man’s eyes widened as he saw what waited outside his home, a figure in gleaming plate, a navy banner bearing a white star at his back, and dozens and dozens of dangerous looking men following. He disappeared swiftly, running off to fetch the elder.

It did not take long for a grizzled older man to come stumping out. He had a face like a bulldog, and a green tunic that could almost be called fine. “Milord America? I’m Elder Morgan,” he said, coming to a stop just inside the walls. “How can we serve?”

“I’m here to give you a warning,” Steve said, pretending he couldn’t hear the faint uptick of activity from within the town, hurried footsteps and the clunk of a cellar door being barred. “Lord Baratheon approaches with his army, and he means to pass by your home.”

Morgan paled, but he rallied quickly. “Here?!” How? Why-” he cut himself short. “How long do we have?”

“If not tomorrow, then the day after,” Steve said. He leaned forward to scratch Brooklyn behind the ears, and his mount whickered.

“Can you - are you able to stop them?” the elder asked, concern sharpening him.

Steve looked over his shoulder at his men, confused for a moment. “Stop the army?”

“If you have even a thousand, you could hold them at the bridge for a time,” the elder continued. “The meltwaters might not have arrived yet, but the ford by the bridge isn’t an easy one. If this is your vanguard, you could hold long enough for Lord Tyrell to catch them.” He spoke like a man who had once been a fighter, and the thought drew Steve’s eye to the bow calluses on his hands.

“I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Steve said, raising a hand to him. “I’m not a Reach scout. I’m part of the Stormlands army.”

Morgan blinked at him. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

“I am personally guaranteeing the safety of your town and your people,” Steve said, cutting off any panic at the knees, and the conviction clear in his tone had the elder believing it.

Only for a moment, though. “We all know what armies do to the lands they pass,” he said, jaw set.

“Those armies don’t have me in it,” Steve said. “Now, you can evacuate if you want. You have at least a day, and I can’t guarantee your safety from the Reach army that comes after us.”

A complicated expression crossed his face. “We can’t outrun cavalry. They’d run us down like dogs.”

Steve found himself scowling at the thought. If the townspeople fled and were set upon he would see justice done, but that would be poor comfort after the fact. He couldn’t be everywhere. “Do you have a place you could hide?”

“Not since the floods last summer’s end,” Morgan said. One fist clenched and unclenched as his worry rose.

“If you stay, you will be safe from the Stormland troops,” Steve said. There was not a drop of uncertainty in his voice. “I’ll hold the gate myself if I have to.”

Morgan stared at him, a reluctant will to believe worn clearly. “I can’t make this decision for my neighbours.”

“You’ve got time, but not much,” Steve said.

The elder grunted an acknowledgement, staring at nothing. He shook himself. “By your leave, milord?”

“Yes, but before you go, may we enter your town?” Steve asked politely.

“What?” Morgan asked, barked really, all pretence at formality gone. “You - what?”

“I paid my men yesterday, knowing we’d be heading here,” Steve explained, like this was a perfectly normal situation. “They’ve got a bit of coin burning holes in their pockets.”

For a long moment, Morgan stared at him. The sound of a horse’s stamp and the cry of a bird were the only sounds. Finally, the elder closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “The town is yours, milord,” he said as he opened them. Without another word, he turned and stomped away, heading down the lane.

“He seems nice,” Steve said to himself. Behind him, Ren coughed, and he grinned at the unspoken suffering. “Mounts against the wall men, and I want them checked before you even think of heading in!”

An orderly rush broke out, and Steve nudged Brooklyn around to supervise it. There was nowhere to tie them off to, but the mounts of Lord America’s company were uncannily well behaved, and happy to graze as their riders checked them over quickly. Rather than join them, Walt rode over to stop at Steve’s side, a sour look on his weathered face.

“You’ll want to have a watch on the town before the army arrives,” he said without pause.

“You reckon so?” Steve said.

“First men to see it will swarm the place like locusts, even if they’re not right cunts,” Walt said. “And you’ll want to borrow some authority from Baratheon for it.”

“It’d head off any disagreements from the nobles,” Steve said, nodding. “Who would you pick to lead a watch like that?”

“That Beron Rogers would be a good pick for the job, or Baratheon’s bastard cousin,” Walt added. “Errol at a pinch, but he’s too high up, and busy wrangling lords for Baratheon besides.”

For a moment, Steve considered making Walt take responsibility for his idea, and perhaps his smirk was a little too telling, for Walt was already shaking his head.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” the veteran warned. “I’ll cut someone’s ear off, don’t think I won’t.”

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, raising a hand as if to ward him off. “But having responsible ideas like this - well, that’s downright knightly of you.”

Walt made a noise of pure disgust and nudged his horse on, leaving Steve to chuckle in his wake. His fun over, he returned to keeping an eye on the horses. Yorick caught his eye as he led his squad through the town gates, giving him a nod, one that he returned. For all that his men had earned the closest thing to leave he could give them, they still had a job to do.

The men swept through the town like a very orderly and polite pack of wolves, and more than one shopkeep found themselves short of stock in their wake. The town of not quite one thousand souls found themselves bewildered in the aftermath, having barely received the fearsome word of an oncoming army. By the time Steve had finished reassuring a passing merchant that yes, he wanted to buy his stock, not commandeer it, the residents had mostly decided that to flee would see them left unprotected, and that they would put their hopes in the word of the man with the white star banner.

Things began to move very quickly after that, or so it felt. They returned to the army, Steve bringing word of the town and its surrounds to Robert, gathered by the men during their short leave. With Lord Errol’s counsel, he was more than happy to agree with Steve’s suggested town watch, and Lord Rogers found himself voluntold for the position, riding ahead with his men to secure the town. After giving his report, Steve turned to more important matters, like giving the book he had purchased from the merchant to Naerys, and accepting her amorous appreciation.

When the army arrived at Mastford three days later, the small town found itself gradually swallowed by their encampment, tents and bedrolls filling up their fields and forests. The effort to gather water from the Mander each day took more man hours than a week of seeding during the planting season, but the details of the camp were not what the townspeople would remember. When they spoke of the day the Rebellion had come to their doorstep, they would speak of moment that Lord Baratheon came to their simple wooden gates, clad in horned plate worth more than their entire town, under a banner made of fabric finer than any they had ever held, and asked politely for entry.

“I am Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm’s End,” the man said, voice near booming as he made himself heard by every noble and knight who had ridden with him at his demand. “I ask for entry to your town of Mastford. In return, I swear that no harm will come to those within, whether by my hand or by the hands of those sworn to me.”

He was not alone, the highest lords sworn to him at his side. It was a statement, an allowance, and a boast all in one.

Elder Morgan could hardly match the voice of the Lord of the Stormlands, but he tried all the same. “With your word, and by your honour, be welcome in our walls!”

The gates were opened, not by some strong townsman, but by Lord Beron Rogers, cousin to the betrothed of the Lord Paramount. The message was clear. The town would be untouched, and though its residents would still not dare to venture out, nor did they fear some band of rapacious soldiers battering down their doors.

Later, once he had inspected the town and paid a nervous blacksmith a single gold dragon to replace a thrown horseshoe, he rode out with those whose counsel he valued, and inspected the bridge he meant to use to cross the Mander. When he did, he began to smile, a slow, dark thing that promised nothing good for those it was aimed at. Perhaps they would linger longer than first planned.

X

Urgent councils were held that night and the following day as plans were adjusted and changed, opportunity rising, but that was not Steve’s concern. When battle came, he would fight, but until then, he would spar and train and do his best to help those in his care improve, even if that meant making them regret ever signing on with him. That was getting harder and harder these days, however.

Steve bent over backwards to avoid being whacked in the face by Ren, turning it into a flip to punish Yorick when the man tried to take advantage - and his knees. A swift kick knocked the spear shaft from his hands, and then Steve was on his feet again, turning to sweep Willem’s from under him. The redhead cursed as he fell, and then cursed some more as Steve grabbed him and spun, throwing him into Ren as she came in for another attack. Yorick made one last desperate attempt, rushing forward to tackle his commander bodily, only to feel like he had tackled a castle wall. He stilled when he felt a hand grasp him by the arm and leg.

A cry went up from the small crowd around the sparring circle when Yorick hit the ground outside it with an audible oof. There were grumbles, but no money changed hands, none foolish enough to bet against their Captain no matter how many entered the circle against him at a time.

“The pool is now one hundred and three gold dragons,” Naerys announced happily from her perch on an empty keg. She made a note on the parchment she held, using her new book as support. She had only set it down to eat ever since Steve had given it to her, and when she had first thanked him for it, leaving his lips thoroughly swollen.

“And you all owe me one hundred and three pushups by tomorrow,” Steve reminded them, helping Willem to his feet. The rest of their group had already limped or been thrown from the circle.

Groans answered him, but they were well used to his demands now. One day, someone would land a lucky blow on the Captain and wrangle a victory from it, and the pool would be theirs, but until that day they would suffer beneath his cruel attentions.

“Any other volunteers today?” Steve asked. He accepted a waterskin from Robin, the water cool under the heat of the morning sun.

Those present took stock of themselves. Most had already stepped into the circle once already, and those eager enough to do it a second time already had.

“Walt hasn’t yet,” someone sounding suspiciously like a child trying to sound like an adult called out.

“Neither have you Toby,” Walt called back, not looking up from the block of wood he was carving away at.

A tall figure joined the gathering, those closest stepping aside in respect. “What has he done now?” they asked, weary.

“Didn’t do nothin’,” Toby insisted from where he sat in the dirt, Dodger in his lap.

“Keladry,” Steve said, smiling. “Just who I wanted to see.”

Keladry stilled, sensing danger. Her gambeson was sweaty from her glaivework, but she was still fresh enough, just warmed up nicely. “Me?”

“Get in the ring,” Steve ordered. “We haven’t had a good spar since Pentos.”

She did not hesitate to obey, glaive at rest on her shoulder, and an air of anticipation fell over the crowd. To their dismay, most had missed the duel between their Captain and his second in command, out drinking as they were, and had been forced to settle for a glimpse of the end or of second hand tales.

Ever so slightly, Keladry lifted her chin in challenge.

“Robin,” Steve said, “fetch my hammer.”