Wariness and confusion flickered through the front ranks of the Reach soldiers as they watched the man who could only be Lord America approach, alone but for his white horse and his proud banner. Again they waited outside of bowshot, but they could see the Stormland army across the river, the foe waiting but showing no concern that such a formidable knight was so exposed. He came to a stop closer than some men were comfortable with, but most knew better - it was clear that the tales of the defeated at the Battle at Blueburn were exaggerated, no matter the stature of the man. They readied themselves for whatever he could possibly want, spears gripped tight.

Steve inspected the men before him, keeping an easy smile on his face as he read the thoughts and worries and reassurances worn plainly. He said nothing, letting his presence speak for itself as the moments ticked by. Someone coughed, and he could see necks craning to get a look at him from further down the line. Finally, at length, he swung himself free of Fury and dismounted. His banner was driven into the ground, standing defiant before an army of thousands. He took his horn from where it dangled at his hip, drew a breath, and blew.

The mournful note had not yet faded before he started to receive disgruntled and upset looks, the Reachmen well familiar with the sound from the night before. When it did fade, he spoke. “I’m here to beat down anyone who doesn’t lack the balls to face me, man to man,” Steve said. “Any takers?”

Incredulous silence answered him.

“Come on now,” Steve said, crossing his arms. “I don’t expect Peake to have the courage to come out without being forced to, but there must be a few in this army that are here to do more than sightsee.”

Glances were exchanged, not a man seeming to know how to deal with the situation. But then, it probably wasn’t every day they found themselves faced with such a thing.

Slowly, Steve began to tap a finger against his arm, the tink of metal on metal loud even against the shifting and murmuring of the ranks of men he stood before. Each tink seemed to press on them more and more, or perhaps it was the slowly fading smile on Steve’s face as he feigned a steadily building annoyance.

“I will face you!”

There was a waver in the words at the start, but it grew stronger by the end, and then a man was nudging his way through the ranks, much-repaired plate armour marking him apart from the typical troops around him in their more piecemeal gear, for all that their red and gold surcoats lent an air of uniformity.

Steve looked over the one to step forward as he came to a stop between him and the front ranks. Worried brown eyes looked up at him from under the raised visor of his sallet helm, though he was determined still. The helm itself was as well used as the rest of his armour, and the shield he bore on his right arm had a yellow apple on it.

“What’s your name, Ser?” Steve asked.

“I’m just Harold. No ser,” the man said, a swallow noticeable even beneath his chain gorget. “Wasn’t knighted before my master passed.”

“Well Harold, you’ve shown the courage of a knight if nothing else,” Steve said. At the back of the block of men he had come from, someone finally hustled off, hopefully carrying a message to someone in charge. He was starting to feel a touch of real annoyance that none of the actual nobles had stepped up.

Harold didn’t answer, only flicking his visor down and pulling a war pick free from the loop of leather it sat in at his left hip. Nervous tension was clear in his shoulders as he set himself as if preparing to receive a charge.

A weapon was hardly needed, certainly not when his own shield already rested on his arm, but Steve wasn’t about to shame the man who had stepped forward when no one else had. He pulled his hammer free from its harness on his back, and gave it a spin. The air thrummed with its passing, and the nearby men still standing in ranks looked to Harold as one, visibly pitying him.

With a yell, Harold rushed forward, pick raised high, and Steve was struck by how young he was - he couldn’t yet be out of his teens, certainly younger than Keladry. The super soldier turned side on as the pick came down and it met only air. The brave young squire did not let that stop him, lashing out with his shield in an attempt to foul any return blow Steve might be readying.

The shield bash found only another shield, and there was a tinny ring as steel boss met vibranium. Harold had time to peer through his visor, eyes widening at the complete lack of give to his blow, before Steve responded in kind.

Harold was sent flying, hurled back towards the line. He landed heavily and skidded to a stop on the grass before them, shield splintered and body still. A moment later, he groaned.

“Good fight,” Steve said, setting his unused hammer back in its harness. Fury chewed loudly on the grass behind him. “Who’s next?”

The ranks didn’t come close to shrinking back, but there was a distinct lack of eye contact to be had. Thankfully for Steve’s patience and the Reachmen’s nerves, the thud of approaching hoofbeats heralded the arrival of the ones who should have been responding to his challenge all along.

Peake was not amongst them, living down to Steve’s expectations. He was still disappointed, but the small group of knights and nobles would serve his purposes well enough. He recognised none of them, but the foremost among them was preceded by a banner that bore a red apple on gold. Steve glanced from it to the surcoats worn by the troops, two of whom were even then helping Harold to his feet. Someone of stature then. He’d do.

The group rode along the front ranks until they neared, having reached the front after filtering through the gaps between blocks of men, and they stopped, dismounting a short distance away. They made the final approach on foot, and it had the air of some bit of manners about it.

“Lord America,” the leader of the group called out, light brown hair bouncing as he stepped forward eagerly, helm tucked under one arm. “Even if not for your banner, I would know you by your shield work.”

“That so,” Steve said, eyeing the man. He wore fine plate, unmarred by battle, but he still wore it easily, and the sword at his hip had a hilt that saw much use. Something about his fair face was familiar, though stubble hid the lines of his cheeks, and there were faint lines about his eyes.

“My sons fell afoul of it at Harrenhal,” the man said. “I must admit to thinking poorly of them at first, for falling to an unknighted foe, but I was quickly corrected.” He laughed, like they were on that same tourney field and not the field of battle, and his good mood was mirrored by smiles from the men with him.

“Owen and Raymun Fossoway,” Steve said, realising where the familiarity came from even as he held back a frown. “They were skilled riders. Polite, too.”

“You remember them,” the man said, seeming pleased. “I am Lord Taron Fossoway.” He affected a slight bow.

“Steve Rogers, Lord America,” Steve said, but that was the limit of the pleasantries he was willing to engage with. “I’m here to beat down any man who faces me until Peake stops being such a coward.”

The abrupt change in tone stymied Taron, but only for a moment. “Yes, well…there was some disagreement over the merit of your challenge, but it is my men you have presented yourself to, and it is I who will decide how to respond to such a thing - though I see one of my good men has already risen to the occasion.”

They glanced over at where Harold was being helped away, still groggy and in no state to be standing in formation.

“He was brave,” Steve said. “Stepped up as a knight should, even if he was only ever a squire.”

“I see,” Taron said. He glanced over his shoulder, and a man who looked to be a relative lifted one shoulder in a shrug, shaking his head slightly. “I will speak with him after, to get his measure.”

Steve only nodded, and began to tap a finger on his arm again. Some of the men standing in ranks winced.

“But first we must answer your challenge,” Taron said, his smile taking on a sharper edge now. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I w-”

“Brother, let me,” another man said, stepping forward. Again he had the Fossoway look, but he was a shorter man, stockier, and he wore similarly fine plate. It stood out in contrast to the armour the men in ranks wore.

Taron sighed, but it was a put upon thing. “Mother was right to say I spoil you, Edgar,” he said, and he stepped aside.

“Tales are told of your prowess, Lord America!” Edgar said as he advanced, even as the rest of his fellows stepped back. He pulled his visor down, keeping eye contact through the grill, and readied his mace. “But you have not fa-”

Steve stepped forward without bothering to draw his hammer, grabbing Edgar’s weapon hand before he could do more than begin his attack. He headbutted the knight in the face, crumpling the thinner visor, and then he threw the man into the air by his arm - not far, only a foot or two, but with the blow to the face it was enough to leave him reeling and unbalanced, and he came down heavily, landing with a clatter of steel. Before he could do more than try to regain his bearings, Steve put his boot on his chest.

“Yield?” the super soldier asked.

“Yield,” the knight said, confusion underneath the pain in his voice.

Steve took his boot off his chest, and looked to the rest. They were not smiling now, shock and befuddlement replacing humour. “Who’s next?” he asked again.

There was a moment of silence before Taron mustered a response, glancing quickly at his soldiers, silent witnesses to it all. “Perhaps I should have been praising my sons from the start,” he said, managing a brief smile.

An incline of Steve’s head was his only answer, no words coming, only a silent expectation for the next challenger to step forward.

Another knight did once the first was helped up and away, but he was dispatched just as quickly as Edgar, charging forward like a bull only to be clotheslined and dumped on his back. The next managed a short exchange of blows, cautious and keeping his distance, but he too fell when Steve booted him square in the chest and sent him flying. Another did away with his shield in hopes of outpacing him, only to discover that Steve was no slow brute when he was punched three times in half a second, crumpling plate and leaving him struggling to breathe.

Throughout it all, the men nearby watched, steadily more agog at the scene playing out before them. They watched as knights they had seen trounce bandits were trounced the same in turn, as their overlords were dismissed as threats and smacked around like unruly children. Finally only Taron was left, his sworn knights spread about them in various states of pain and disarray, each having stepped forward before he had the chance.

“What are - I have never…” he said, struggling to comprehend what he had seen. “When word spread that you defeated Ser Barristan in a single blow, we thought it rumour, boasts.”

Steve had little interest in discussing the particulars of his second duel with Barristan then and there. “Are you ready?” he asked instead.

Taron gathered himself. “I am,” he said, drawing his sword and setting his stance. “But first - why?” He didn’t need to explain.

“If Peake is going to be a bitch about things,” Steve said, making no attempt to keep his words from the spectators, “I’m going to make sure everyone knows it. At least the Fossoways had the balls to step forward.”

Realisation dawned on Taron’s face, and he glanced to his men, grimacing as he realised Steve’s ploy. Leading an army was problematic when the common soldiery thought their general to be a coward. “Well played, Lord America.”

Lord Fossoway lasted no longer than his men, though Steve took pity on him and let him land a blow on his shield before dispatching him in the same way he had his son, knocking him from his feet and breaking at least one bone with a shield bash.

Steve lowered his shield and looked around. Some knights were in better condition than others, but none would find it easy to remove themselves from the field. “You there,” he said, pointing at a man in the front rank. The man froze, looking from Steve to the fallen knights and back. “Help these men to their horses.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

A look of relief crossed the man’s face, and he went about it, working with the less battered knights to get the rest up and moving. None were crippled or even severely wounded, but no man could be manhandled by a super soldier and walk it off easily.

For a moment, the Reachmen hoped that perhaps it was over, but then they watched as the fearsome foreign lord with the strength of ten men only returned to his planted banner, showing every intention of waiting for more challengers. They could only avoid eye contact, and hope that his challenge was answered quickly.

Their hopes were not answered, and soon the impatient tapping began once more. Five minutes passed, then ten, twenty - still there was no response to the silent challenge of his presence. The tapping continued throughout, never speeding or slowing, for all that Lord America’s face was slowly overtaken by a frown.

Finally, at length, Lord America shifted, the tapping suddenly stopping. “Funny, isn’t it,” he remarked, in a tone that said it was anything but, “how Peake expects you all to fight and die for him, but he won’t even step up when challenged man to man.”

The men of the Reach were left to consider those parting words as the blond giant took up his banner and mounted his white horse, ambling casually back towards his own lines. He was a small figure at the bridge by the time more Reach knights arrived in belated answer to his challenge. Whether it was due to fear, or that word had been slow to be passed, none could say, nor did it matter - the damage had already been done. Lord America, the man who had raided deep into the Reach and insulted Lord Peake with apparent impunity, had come and gone, and his words would spread amongst the men quickly.

It was a poor day for Lord Peake’s reputation, but the next would be even poorer.

X

That night, men lay in wait around the Reach camp, hiding in the dark as they sought to ambush the scoundrel that had so disturbed their sleep the night prior. They would wait in vain, as their target slipped by them without a sound, tired men relying on the light of the moon little threat compared to cameras and thermal vision.

Even in the camp few saw him, and those that did paid him no mind, clearly just another weary sentry seeking his bed, or a servant carrying a message, or a quartermaster’s assistant holding a report. The slips of parchment he left about the place seemed unobtrusive things, but they would certainly cause a stir when discovered and inspected under the light of day, mirthful and wrathful both. Lord America was already a target of Lord Peake’s ire, but whoever this ‘Hood’ was would earn their own measure of it too.

When it came time for him to leave, he did not do so empty handed, a thick bundle of cloth under his arm. Those who noticed the bare banner pole by Peake’s tent would only assume a servant had taken it down for cleaning, or something similar - until they were corrected by the sight that awaited them at the river the next morning.

X

“There once was a lord from the Reach

Who thought he was quite the peach

His name was Luke

His face made men puke

And the ladies all shudder and screech!”

Lord America’s martial prowess was well known, for all that it surely grew in the telling. His strategic daring had spread amongst the Reachmen, spurred on by accounts of those who had witnessed his raiding. His personal skill was likewise well known, retold by those lucky enough to be at Harrenhal or blessed enough to survive his passing at the Battle at Blueburn. Even lords of good stature were speaking of it, though of course they exaggerated his ability to ease the sting of defeat before their men.

“Brave Ser Peak he held the line

As manly courage, they did malign

He has no fear

Not at the rear

Where he can see the battle just fine!”

What was becoming equally well known of him, however, was his sheer cheek.

“I know a man named Peake

He lusts after horse and sheep

A chase through the grass

To claim hairy ass

Til they turn and he lets out a shriek!”

The gathered Reach army looked on as the man paraded before them, as if he had not a care in the world. Such a man certainly felt no fear, not with thousands of foes before him and his allies too far away across the river to respond should they take offence to what he was doing. And there were some who did, for his words were only half of the insult he had dared to level. The childish rhymes some might have found it in them to ignore as below their dignity to notice, but the banner? The banner was too much.

Once proudly displayed in the heart of the Reach camp, now it fluttered over Lord America’s shoulder, trailing behind him. The cloth banner was made of finer materials than some lesser lords would wear, and the dyes came all the way from Tyrosh, but that only made the sight of it dragging in the dirt more painful for certain spectators.

Up and down the Reach line Lord America trotted along, his full voice ensuring that his rhymes were heard by many, and those too far back to hear clearly would have them ferried back in chortling whispers, the common men unable to pretend a lack of amusement. They were the sort of thing that a fool or a child would think up as a taunt, but that didn’t make them any easier to bear. It only made them worse.

It was a very silent party that watched the field from a nearby vantage point, though each man’s reasons for being so varied. Some were mortified, some furious, some just trying not to draw the notice of the party leader. Some few were amused, though they kept it to themselves. At the head of the group, Lord Peake gripped his reins tight, lips pressed together in a thin line. Even removed from the spectacle, he could make out the insolent foreigner’s taunts faintly.

They watched as the would-be knight stopped, for what reason they could not divine. Then he let the stolen banner fall, and it became clear. The tail of his mount rose, and someone choked as it loosed its bowels all over the once proud symbol of House Peake’s status. A piercing whinny rose up mockingly after it was done, and then Lord America was trotting away, heading back for his own line.

Noble men looked to the man who had been granted command over their host, expectant and waiting. Fewer than half of them owed him any fealty, and their clear interest was perhaps less than benevolent.

He did not speak, but something creaked in Lord Peake’s gauntlet as his grip tightened even further.

X

Steve wore a faint smile as he cantered across the bridge, Fury’s hoofbeats filling the cool morning air. Near the middle a dozen knights stood guard, just short of the span replaced by wood, but they stepped aside as he approached, all grinning and smirking like schoolboys. He gave them a nod in turn, and then he was past them, approaching the small party waiting for him on the north bank. Naerys was amongst them, drawing his eye, and she was inspecting him for any injury. He quirked an eye at her, wishing they were alone so she could do more than just a sight check. She must have recognised the look in his eye, because she quirked an eye in turn.

“Well?” Robert demanded, thumb drumming a beat on his thigh, the small moment enough to see his patience run dry. He stood at the head of the group, a mix of lords and Steve’s own companions. “How went it?” For all that he was comparable in stature to Steve, sometimes his enthusiasm reminded people that he had only barely escaped his teens.

“I think I’ve well and truly introduced the limerick to Westeros,” Steve said, dismounting, and rubbing Fury behind the ears as he went. “It should catch on.”

Robert rolled his eyes, knowing well that Steve was deliberately misunderstanding him. “How did Peake react? Did you see him?” The other lords, mostly middling nobles that Robert got on well with personally, were almost leaning past him with eager impatience.

“He wasn’t particularly happy,” Steve said, handing Fury’s reins off to Robin as he came forward, the squire whisking his mount away to be seen to. “I’ve seen charging bulls more sanguine than he was.” Even as far away as he was, the expression on his face had been easy to read.

“How did he react to the sheepfucking one?” Robert asked. That particular limerick had been born of a meeting that grew into social drinking, as most planning sessions involving the lords tended to.

“I think if we had the time, we could probably kill him via stroke if we kept at it,” Steve said.

“Heh,” Robert said, but then his amusement faded. Time was not their ally in this, and they knew it. “If he doesn’t attack tomorrow, he never will.”

“From what I know of him, he will,” Steve said. A smart commander would have ignored the taunts, would have placed the good of the war effort above his ego, but this was Westeros, not Earth. If Peake did not attack, his reputation would never recover, and he would be followed by the same taunts for the rest of his life. “I insulted him before his lords, made his soldiers think he feared to face me, and disrespected his banner. If he doesn’t attack, that army will have a new leader within days.”

“You think they’d go so far?” Silveraxe Fell asked, standing to Robert’s side. He was frowning, but not in disagreement.

“They’re not loyal to Peake the way you all are to Robert,” Steve said. “He’s a peer for some, not a superior.”

“Half of them think they ought to have been given the Reach instead of the Tyrells,” another lord opined. “They lack the blood of kings in their leaders that we have.”

“Their loss,” Robert said, cocky, and there was laughter from his lords. His gaze went beyond their talk, over the river and towards the enemy, glancing up at the sun. The day was yet young. “Rotate the men. If Peake finds his balls, I want them fresh.” There was some quick talk amongst the lords, discussing details and the likelihood of an imminent attack.

Personally, Steve reckoned that the attack would come the next day, once Peake had time to boil over or be prodded into action by his fellows, but keeping the men fresh was still wise. Even just standing at the ready was tiring, especially in armour, surcoats to shield the metal from the sun or not. At least the bizarre seasons had not long left winter behind.

When Robert finished with his men and they were going off on their tasks, he turned to Steve again. Naerys had stepped up to his side to ghost her shoulder against his, and with Bryn now visible in Robert’s shadow in the absence of the group, it was just the four of them. The nearest blocks of men ready to hold the river were out of casual earshot.

“Are you going out again tonight?” Robert asked him.

“I think I’ll stay on this side of the river, where it’s safe,” Steve joked.

Robert grunted. “Good. Let them stew in it.”

After the previous two nights, they’d likely be more paranoid about finding no trace of him than if he’d pulled some more mischief. “That’s the plan.”

“You…I find myself owing you more and more,” Robert said, the big man shifting his shoulders, grimacing awkwardly. “This goading would not have worked so well from a Stormlander.”

“I’m not here to profit,” Steve said, glancing at Naerys. She gave him a reassuring nod. “I see the games of influence your lords play, but I want no part of it.”

“Aye, but it is ill to let de- favours go unreturned,” Robert said, his grimace deepening. This was not a field in which he was comfortable. “I have been counselled that I should repay you, before they grow too heavy, or reflect on me.”

“Samuel is a good advisor,” Steve said, taking a stab in the dark.

Robert snorted. “He is. I’ve needed his advice and experience here, but he has told me plainly what he needs of me in turn. His granddau-” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I can’t grant you greater privileges, or a sinecure to family, but you perform deeds that would see my loyal lords rewarded greatly, asking for nothing in turn, and my lords notice.”

“Cafferen,” Steve said, a note of aggravation in his voice.

“That’s part of it,” Robert said, nodding. “Some are envious, others don’t like that you seem to be gathering favour, some just don’t like that you’re foreign.” He glanced at Naerys. “Then there are some that take offence to your woman going about armed and armoured, or-”

“If they have a problem with that they can stand up and be heard,” Steve said flatly.

“I know,” Robert said, raising a hand to placate him. Behind him, his squire shifted. “I don’t - I hate this part of it,” he said, sighing. “Give me a good battle any day.”

It was something Steve had noticed of the Stormlord. For all that he was charismatic and boisterous, he had a distaste for the subtler and underhanded side of ruling. “Samuel put you up to this too, didn’t he.”

Robert let out another gusty sigh. “Aye. As if we don’t have more important business to see to.”

“These things matter,” Steve said, his mind far away. He had felt the same way for a long time, content to busy himself with Strike, but that just left him reliant on others to fight those battles. That was how you had agreements - accords - forced on you.

The look on Robert’s face said he disagreed, but he didn’t voice his thoughts. “Think on it,” he said. “If you can ask for something and I can reward you, maybe everyone will calm down.”

Steve found himself sharing a look with Naerys, their thoughts clearly aligning. Robert was young though. He would learn that there was no ignoring politics. “I’ll do that,” Steve said.

“Good,” Robert said, already turning away, as if fleeing the topic. “Come on squire, I want to see that footwork I showed you.”

Steve watched them go, but felt his lips pursing as he came to realise that he had been guilty of the same avoidance that the Stormlord was. He had seen the unhappiness of certain lords and machinations playing out, but he had done the minimum to blunt them. A sigh escaped him. He really did not want to get involved in them more than he already was.

“Such a burden, to be owed by a Lord Paramount,” Naerys said, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. There were far too many potential eyes on them for anything more.

“It’s not easy, but someone has to do it,” Steve said, playing along. His armour prevented him from feeling the warmth of her hand, so he shook off a gauntlet and threaded his fingers through hers instead, squeezing gently.

She returned it, smiling, but then her mien grew serious. “There is another reason for lords to be unhappy with you, Steve,” she said, looking him in the eye. “There are those that don’t like that you expect them to live up to their oaths, but what they hate most is that you can force consequences on them should they not. Those are the ones most dangerous, not the lords jealous of Robert’s attention or who look down on anyone not born in the Stormlands.”

Steve felt his jaw set, mulish. “They can hate it all they like. They don’t have a choice in the matter.”

Naerys bit her lip, eyes darkening as she looked up at him. “There is not a man in this army or that who can best you, but some are foolish enough to try.”

“Let them,” Steve said. He felt something savage twist in his heart as a thought occurred to him. “Remind Lyanna, and Betty and her girls not to wander through the camp alone.”

“They won’t need the reminder, but I’ll speak with them,” Naerys said. She tugged at his arm. “Let’s get you out of that armour. You deserve a rest, and a…massage.”

Steve couldn’t help but react, and Naerys smirked as she caught it. He allowed himself to be pulled along, both determined to take advantage of the final moment of calm, one way or another. They began to make for the camp, past the defensive lines and beyond.

The next day, the battle of Mastford Bridge would finally begin.