There was a tension in the air, as the sun rose on the fourth day at Mastford Bridge. Anticipation could be felt coursing from man to man like a river, starting with the veterans until even the youngest camp followers could feel it. There was no doubt that the Reach would finally accept their offer of battle that day. Not after Lord America’s show the day before, and days before that.

Across the Stormland camp, men readied themselves for battle, and all that came with it. Those that knew their letters well enough scratched out messages for loved ones, while others made deals with those they trusted to carry words home, or to carry theirs if needed. Trinkets and small keepsakes, what coin they had, even the armour they wore, all was spoken for as men did their best to ensure it would get to those they left behind should they fall.

But not all men were so grim in their preparations. Others spoke and boasted of this or that ransom they would take, of what they would do with their share, of how they would crush the Reachmen at the water’s edge. Three days of watching and listening - and contributing - to a powerful foe being subjected to shit talk had a way of raising spirits, and the knowledge that warriors like Lord Baratheon and Lord America were on their side raised it ever further.

There was little of that in Lord America’s camp that morning, however. Arrangements for the fallen had long since been made, written down in the official company logs, signed and stamped by each member no matter their role or status. Instead the entire company was gathered in good cheer along the tables and under shading tarps that served as the mess area, tucking into a breakfast that a lord would hesitate to pass up with. Greasy bacon, fresh eggs and fresher bread, and honey to drizzle over whatever they pleased. The best of it all though was the fruit, bowls and bowls of it along the mess tables, enough for every man to have seconds. There was even some variety to it, apples and melons and plums. How the Captain had gotten his hands on it, they did not know, but they weren’t about to question it. That was just what the Captain did.

“If I’d known you were doing this too,” Walt grumbled, “I wouldna bothered.” He was mopping up the grease on his plate with a hunk of bread.

“I think it worked out better this way,” Steve said, not looking at the man at his left. He bit into an apple. He had saved it for last, a clean plate before him, for all that he had polished off another in his tent before joining the men for breakfast. “Better that everyone can have their fill rather than hand out one apiece.”

Around them, the talk and cheer of the company continued. There was no gulf or distance between officer and enlisted, between knight and smallfolk, or even between soldier and servant. They were one company preparing themselves for the day to come, even if it was unlikely they themselves would see combat.

“How did you get your hands on it?” Walt asked, tearing off a piece of his bread with his teeth. “Not easy to get fresh fruit with an army about.”

“Bought from a merchant in Mastford, before the army arrived,” Steve said. “Why, how did you?”

Walt took his time chewing, long enough for Steve to give him a look. “It were all above board,” the old soldier said. “Don’t worry about it, milord.”

“Uh huh,” Steve said, his tone making his thoughts clear.

“It was, Captain,” Symon insisted, seated across the table from them. The slender man had come a long way from being a determined but untrained man setting off into hostile mountain territory. “We won it fair and-” he jumped, as if he had just been kicked under the table, and cleared his throat. “I mean, it were all above board.”

Steve sighed, and decided to leave it. He spied Robin one table over, sitting amongst Osric, Ren, Willem, and the rest of the slingers. They were laughing about something, and he felt a smile forming on his own face, contagious.

“Did you decide on where you would put him?” Naerys asked, following his gaze from where she was seated at his right. If they were sitting closer to one another than most occupants of the mess benches, no one had commented. “Or if you’re taking anyone with you on the bridge?”

She was eating a plum, and as Steve watched, a drop of juice spilled from her lips to trail down her chin. As he considered her question, he reached out to wipe it off absently. “Robin will stay with the company. Payment for riding out without orders last time,” he said. “I’ll post Ren amongst the knights supporting me, with the banner, and Keladry will fight at my side.” He licked the plum juice he’d wiped off from his thumb.

She blushed faintly at first, but something in Naerys’ expression eased at his words. “Good,” she said.

Steve gave her a curious look, prompting her with a tilt of his chin.

“I’d rather you have someone by your side who knows how you fight,” she said in answer. “Other men would stop and stare the first time you punch through someone’s plate.”

“You’ve been listening too closely to rumours,” Steve said dryly, finishing his apple.

“But they are so entertaining,” Naerys said, and the glint in her eyes warned him to her mischief. “My favourite is the one where you felled a knight by slapping him with your leg.”

“With my leg?” Steve asked, looking for the mischief.

“Well, your third-”

Steve goosed her thigh under the table before she could finish, and she retaliated with a poke to his ribs, where he was ticklish. A quick duel broke out, and a compromise was reached when they managed to grab each other’s hand, hostilities fading. They enjoyed the last of their breakfast in silence, listening to the talk of the company around them.

A nudge of his elbow almost reignited their conflict, but then Naerys saw where he was looking, and she smiled. It seemed they were no longer one of only two couples in the company; Henry and Ursa had their heads mighty close together as they spoke quietly, each smiling as they did. They were not the only ones to notice, and Steve saw more than a few coins changing hands quietly.

Breakfast came to an end, and the company began to depart to make their final preparations as the sun rose in truth. They would not be standing in the ranks along the river’s edge, but they would be ready to ride out in response to any word that the Reach had found a missed crossing up or downstream, Walt at their head. The old soldier had grumbled when told of his duty that day, but he had accepted it.

Robin had also taken his orders well enough, knowing that it was his own actions that had brought it about, and had seen to his duties in helping Steve armour up with the same diligence he always did, before hurrying off to speak with Lyanna before he had to join Walt. Steve had time to steal a kiss from Naerys before she went to the medic tents and then he was on his way, meeting Keladry and Ren at the edge of their section of the camp. Ren was calm in a way she hadn’t been before the Battle at Blueburn, banner held steady, and Kel was as controlled as always, though Steve could see her readiness for battle in the grip she had on her glaive. Both women fell into place at his shoulders, and he couldn’t help but feel a moment of amusement that he was keeping the same secret for each of them from the other.

The camp was only a short ride from the river, and they passed the first blocks of men marching into position on their way there. Putting the entire army at the river at once was overkill, given the breadth of the ford, and more men would be sent over the course of the day, battle or not. They even passed small groups of men trudging back to camp, sentries given relief after a night of tense watching for a sneak attack.

When they arrived, there was a yellow and black stag banner waiting for them just short of the bridge, but no sight of the enemy just yet. They made for Robert, and the coterie of perhaps two dozen knights around him.

“St-Ser Steve,” Robert called as they neared, bringing whatever conversation was ongoing to at pause.

“Lord Robert,” Steve answered, tapping Brooklyn’s flanks to bring her to a stop.

“Just two?” Robert asked as the three of them dismounted, handing the reins of their mounts to waiting squires.

“Well, you told me you were bringing the best of the Stormlands to back me up, so I figured I didn’t need more,” Steve said as he joined the gathering proper.

His words were taken well by the seasoned and eager knights. Some were nobles, but some were clearly hedge knights, armour well worn but better cared for, and it was clear that they had been chosen carefully.

“We’re all the best, but aye,” Robert said, grinning. He gestured like he held a goblet in his hand. “Not a man here that can’t go a few minutes in the circle with me, and you’ll know this lout.” He slapped the man next to him on the back, hard enough that the grate on his helm popped open.

A familiar face was revealed, and the smile he wore despite the blow only drew attention to the similarities between him and his lord. “Ser Steve,” he said. There was a mace on his hip, and his shield was patterned to resemble a tortoise shell.

“Ser Thomas,” Steve said. “No wine involved this time, I’m afraid.”

Thomas shrugged as best he could in steel, blue eyes philosophical about the lack of wine. “Not every bit of adventure can be perfect.”

“There’ll be wine, I’m sure,” another man said, “just after.”

“You’re damned right there will be,” Robert said. “A keg from my own stock for every man here, and a fine Reach stallion or a suit of armour on top.”

There was a confidence amongst them, and it was bolstered by a cheer in response to his words, for all that they were less than thirty warriors to hold the bridge against all that the Reach could muster to break across it. But then, such confidence was warranted when men had the proof of their own eyes that some things were not boastful rumour, but fact.

Still, Steve was not one inclined to arrogance or poor planning. “There are reserves ready to switch out with us?” he asked of Robert.

“I’ve a lance ready to ride up in sections,” Robert said, more serious now. “They’ll be your relief as needed.”

Relief, or reinforcements if they were overrun, but that wasn’t going to happen in Steve’s humble opinion. “Then all that’s left is to take our positions.”

Before anyone could reply, movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked across the river. A party of riders was approaching, and behind them came the Reach army, slowly emerging from behind the woods that hid the road from view in the distance.

“Stags to coppers that’s Peake in front,” Robert said, following his gaze. His own narrowed, but his smirk spoke to satisfaction. “Leading from the front, all dressed up and with his special sword too, I bet.”

Steve felt his interest piqued by the mention of the sword, but before he could ask the Stormlord was turning to him.

“Are you riding out with me to meet him?”

“I think I’ve said all that needs saying,” Steve said, the understatement in his words near a physical thing, “but if he asks where I am, tell him, and call him a bitch for me.”

Robert laughed, and it spread quickly to the other knights. “I'll do that. Gods, the songs- I’ll ask him what he thought of the drawings, too.”

“We want him to berserk and break parley, then?” Thomas asked.

There was more laughter, and then Robert was gesturing over a mounted party from nearby, his own horse held by them. The Stormlands forces were just taking up their positions along the river in full when their Lord Paramount rode over the bridge, antlered helm and hammer born by a single hand making him seem larger than the knights behind him. Black and yellow billowed in the wind as they rode, hooves clattering on stone, and the army cheered them on. Bara-theon, Bara-theon, Bara-theon they roared, battlelust beginning to boil over. It would be soon.

Soon, but not yet. Steve turned to the men who were nominally his for the battle, and began to give orders. The bridge would hold, but he was not looking forward to the amount of blood he would need to spill to ensure it.

X

Robert had returned from the short-lived negotiations in good cheer, Steve and his men stepping to each side of the bridge to let him pass. They would be the last to do so until Steve decided otherwise.

Near the middle of the bridge, just short of the section that had been replaced by wood, Steve stood alone - almost. Behind, at his right shoulder Keladry stood, helm closed and glaive ready, pointing skyward. To his left was Thomas, deep and almost hungry breaths hinting that his smile had fallen away, mace drifting back and forth. The rest of the knights stood in loose ranks two steps behind them, Ren in their centre, holding the banner that proudly declared just who was waiting for any that dared to cross high.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

There were squads of archers at the end of the bridge, ready and waiting behind wooden barricades, positioned to fire upon the bridge as needed, and men holding the river to its sides, but the men with Steve were isolated, an exposed point almost begging to be crushed in recompense for the insults their leader had thrown at Lord Peake.

Across the river, trumpets sang, and men began to move. A block of men, perhaps two hundred strong, angled for the bridge. They were no knights, only troops and men-at-arms at best, and Steve felt his jaw set. A probing attack, testing them.

“Remember,” he said, speaking over his shoulder. “This is a marathon, not a sprint. Swap out before you feel the strain, not after. Peake is going to make us stack his men high before he sends his knights. God knows he won’t come himself.”

Low chuckles answered him, but the time for high spirited mirth was over, and then the Reachmen were at the river.

Arrows soared, buzzing like hornets, and they came from both sides. A moment later, scattered screams rang out, but they were distant, second to the steel rain that was about to fall on the bridge. Steve held his shield over his exposed face, ignoring the few that fell upon him. Arced as they were, they didn’t have nearly enough power to pierce even the comparatively weaker joins of his armour. Keladry was much the same for all that she lacked a shield, only tilting her head down to avoid the ill luck of an arrow through her visor. Behind them, he heard shields being raised, protecting the one member of their guard not in plate armour.

The volleys continued from both sides, men dying here and there to poor luck, but most were only injured, ignoring the arrows sticking from legs and arms to keep pushing across the river, or to wait at its bank.

Without water and poor footing to slow them, the men advancing across the bridge neared well before their fellows below did, much to their misfortune. Steve readied his hammer, expression flat and closed off. Then the foes reached him, and he began to kill.

They came in ranks five wide, and there was fear in their eyes, for all it was held in check by the knowledge that they were followed by hundreds of their fellows. They thought to drown him with numbers, to take advantage of the mistake or arrogance that had him standing alone at the front.

The first to die fell without understanding how, but those behind them saw it all. They saw the hammer spike through the face, the shield that shattered a skull, the boot that broke a neck. They saw, but they did not have time to comprehend, because then it was their turn. Blood splattered across the grey stone of the bridge, and the next rank advanced, momentum carrying them to their deaths.

Not every man was cut down by Steve; the men on the outside of the Reach column continued on, hoping or assuming that he would be dealt with only to find themselves facing their own foes. Glaive and mace carved and crushed them, taking advantage of the dervish of slaughter that was their captain. Some rushed them, just to find them easier targets by comparison only. Others thought to help their friends with the red stained knight at the front first, just to discover that they did not take kindly to such things. As each rank advanced, they had precious heartbeats to realise what awaited them and decide how they would spend their lives, and then it was the turn of the rank behind them.

A roar and almighty clamour rose up on either side as the two armies below met, and the footing on the bridge began to grow treacherous, slick with blood and littered with corpses. The Reachmen’s advance was fouled by those that had gone before them, and the slaughter grew. Arrows continued to buzz overhead, both sides attempting to aid the contest on the bridge.

Steve crushed a man’s torso with his hammer, then held his weapon horizontally, a hand at each end of the haft, pushing back at the men lining up to die. They were near launched back, sent stumbling and knocking into those behind, the impact rippling through the ranks. He took the moment to glance at Kel and Thom, making sure they were holding up. There was time to see glaive part a man from his arm and mace dent a man’s head, but then the foe had recovered, and was pushing forward once more.

They died, and the bodies piled up, leaving those behind to struggle past them. At first, they stepped over them, battle fever skewing their judgement, persuading them that surely they would be the ones to break through. Battle fever wavered though, when the corpses grew to knee deep and they could no longer delude themselves. Standing in ranks, it was impossible for those far behind to see how the fight was going, but as those in front were mowed down, those behind moved up, and they saw. They saw death, and they began to waver.

Ducking under a desperate swipe, Steve punched the man with his shield, sending him flying into the stone parapet at the edge, where he was flipped by the impact and sent tumbling into the water below. Two more men were dead before the splash was heard, and then came a lull, as the carpet of corpses physically prevented the Reach advance. The men next in line stared at Steve with terror writ plainly in their eyes, unwilling to move forward, but unable to flee, blocked by those behind them.

Blood dripped from the brow of Steve’s helm to trail down his cheek. Slaughter was a messy business, and there was a bright red splatter across his chest, highlighting the contours of the star embossed there. Gore dripped from the spikes and flanges of his hammer, and his expression was unyielding. Dozens had pushed to their death, and it was clear that as long as they continued, so would the killing.

It was a faint, hoarse thing at first, barely heard over the clamour of battle, but it grew louder. “Back,” one of the men in the front rank said. “Back, back!”

“Forward!” came the shout from the rear, too far back to see what awaited them. “Forward!”

The column was prodded forward by the pressure of those pressed, and those in front looked at the knights that waited for them with fear as they stumbled into the dead, but no violence answered. The front ranks scrambled to push back, no time to ponder their stay of execution - they were out of reach of certain death, but that could change with a step either way - and slowly, forcefully, those in front began to push their way back into the column.

Confusion and accusations of cowardice rose from the Reachmen, but as men pushed through, those behind saw what they had seen, and their voices fell silent. Within a minute, the Reachmen were fleeing the bridge as a mob, not a man amongst them willing to take another step closer to the man that had slain dozens and dozens of their comrades.

Steve watched as they went, thankful that their morale had broken. He spun the haft of his hammer, flicking blood from its head. More would come, he knew with grim certainty, but they would not cross the bridge. Not while he held it. He could only hope that they would come to learn the futility of their efforts before he killed them all.

“Keladry, Thomas,” Steve said, turning to them. Both were breathing hard, though Kel was recovering faster. The armour of both was spotted red, if not as much as his own. “Swap out with someone, then head to the back of the line.” Kel turned to move right away, but Thomas was slower.

“I’m not tired,” Thomas said, put out, his voice not quite echoing within his helm.

Steve almost managed a quip about hogging all the fighting and not giving the others a chance, but he was too aware of the pile of corpses that he had just made. “Not yet. But we don’t know how long we’ll be fighting for, or how many men they’ll feed into the grinder. This is a marathon, not a sprint,” he finished, repeating himself.

Something in the line of Thomas’s shoulders said he realised that, and he argued no further, turning to follow after Kel, and Steve turned back to the foe as two fresh knights stepped up.

Over the river, a noble rode out to the retreating soldiers, vitriol clear in whatever tirade he was levelling at them, his posture obvious even if he was too far away to be heard over the battle. Whatever he said, the men stubbornly refused to obey, choosing noble displeasure over certain death, and eventually the rider turned from them in disgust. A stray arrow pinged off his shoulder and was ignored as he rode back to the ranks of men waiting for their own turn to advance across the river. For a moment, Steve expected another group of soldiers to be ordered forward, but the man rode past them, towards what he couldn’t see.

“I want this bridge cleared of bodies,” Steve said, projecting over his shoulder. “We will place them in rows on the far bank.” Leaving them where they lay might have done more to impede progress, but having to march past them would be more detrimental to their morale, and might even make them flee faster. It also meant they wouldn’t have to stand before a pile of corpses on a sunny day, with all that implied.

It did not take long for the bodies to be moved, with all of them working together. Steve saw more than one man glance consideringly over the bridge parapet, though perhaps they were just taking in the state of the battle. It was not going well for the Reach; only at one point had they managed to start forcing their way from the river and their efforts had earned them a continued shower of arrows. By the time Steve had seen the corpses laid out in rows on the far bank on both sides of the bridge, the block’s advance had been stymied and pushed back into the shallow water.

As they returned to their position, it was also clear that the foe had decided on their next move for the bridge. Knights came on foot, heavily armed and armoured, fifty strong, and their way was shaded by swarms and swarms of arrows. Some battle cry was shouted by the man at their head, and they charged across the bridge in a thunder of metal.

They died.

Not all of them, but over half were felled before they were driven back, and their corpses joined those already there, adding to the warning. Steve didn’t know what had driven them to keep at it until they’d suffered such casualties, and there was a grim set to his jaw at the thought that those that came next would have the same stubbornness.

For all that Steve had a low opinion of Peake, however, the man was no fool. After watching two attacks thoroughly mauled, he did not send a third - not in the same manner, at least. A makeshift battering ram was brought up, though to call it a ram was misleading. It was a wagon, repurposed and redesigned, with a wooden barrier anchored to its front like a shield, thick branches poking out its side for men to push with, and a rudimentary roof providing cover. It was an ugly thing, but it moved, and it picked up speed as it reached the stone of the bridge, barrelling towards them. The barrier had a small square cut from it on each side, and Steve could make out the wild eyes of the first men pushing it along. It seemed that if they couldn’t cut him down, they meant to run him over.

“Well, they say if you want to break down the castle gates, you need a ram,” Steve said as he returned his hammer to its harness, pitching his voice to be heard. Laughter answered him, some more nervous than others. “With me, men. There can’t be much more than a dozen pushing it.”

He stepped forward, and such was his confidence that none hesitated to join him. The wagon seemed fast, but only due to its size, and only to someone who hadn’t thrown a motorcycle into an enemy truck. He planted himself, as did those beside him, and those behind braced them, braced by those behind them in turn.

The wagon slowed slightly as it rattled over the wooden replacement span, but it was still going fast enough to bowl over the average man - until it wasn’t. Sabatons slid across stone and men grunted with effort as momentum was absorbed through the ranks, but it was the Reachmen who suffered more. Pained gasps were heard, as the men who were pushing it suddenly found the branches they pushed with crushing into their chests and stomachs, wind driven out of them.

Steve had a moment to consider their next step - tossing the wagon off the bridge was a bit more blatantly obvious than he was willing to be - but such thoughts were put on hold when a small square section of the barrier was pulled in and a man hiding within the wagon tried to thrust a spear into his face.

Hands occupied, Steve twisted his head to the side, letting the spearpoint glance off his helm. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised, him at the sudden spear to the face, or the man at missing what he must have thought was a sure kill. Pushing down the sudden urge to take the spear haft between his teeth and bite it off, he slammed his shoulder and shield into the wagon’s barrier, rocking it back even as he reached for the spear with his free hand. It was pulled back before he could, but he didn’t let that stop him, punching clear through the barrier in pursuit. A high pitched curse came as he grasped it, and then he pulled it out and free, hurling it away.

“Push!” he bellowed, only putting a measure of strength into it once those with him did. The wagon began to roll back, those behind it trying to stop them, but they were winded by effort and impact already, and had no one capable of matching him besides.

The man in the wagon struck out again, reaching out with dagger in hand this time as he tried to stab at Steve blindly, and he broke the arm absently. He let the man wrench it back within. Whatever Peake had promised them, he didn’t know, but it was certainly getting a great effort out of them.

“Again!” Steve shouted, and this time he stepped forward as they pushed. “Again!”

Gradually, but then picking up speed, the wagon was pushed back, back and back until they reached the far bank. A wheel bit into the earth, digging in and making the wagon lurch and turn. Steve grunted as he gave it a bit of extra lift, causing it to spin and tumble, and then it was rolling over onto its side, exposing its belly. A quick kick destroyed an axel, and he ignored the men crawling from the body like rats from a sinking ship, fleeing.

“I don’t think they’ll try that one again,” a hedge knight said, caught between disbelief and exhilaration.

“Probably not,” Steve said. Movement caught his ear, someone still within the wagon, and then one last man tumbled out, clutching his arm to his chest in pain. He stepped over to him before the nearest knight could do more than raise his hammer.

The man looked up in dread as he noticed Steve’s sabatons stop beside him, but he could do nothing as he was picked up and dusted off, pale with fear.

“So,” Steve said, leaning in, like he was confiding something, though he didn’t lower his voice at all. “What would Peake have given you if you’d managed to put that spear through my face?”

There was a growl behind him, and the sound of something wooden being stamped into the ground.

“I, what?” the man asked, face strained by pain as well. He was neither old nor young, and his pale brown hair was plastered to his head with sweat.

“Come on, you can tell me,” Steve said, coaxing.

“A, a knighthood, and land to build a keep on,” the man said, not even thinking to hide it.

“Huh. That’s more than I was expecting,” Steve said. He rubbed at his chin. “Is that a good deal?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Bit cheap, considering,” Thomas offered.

“Offer me Highgarden and I’ll think about it,” someone joked.

Ren growled again.

“Mercy,” the man asked, eyes wide and roving. “I yield, mercy.” He was trembling.

Steve shed his air of amusement. “Steady there, son. You’re not going to die here. Take a deep breath.”

The man obeyed, and then took several more, slowly calming, though it would be wrong to call him calm.

“I’m going to let you go, but I’d like you to take a message to Peake for me,” Steve said.

This didn’t do anything good for his nerves, but the man managed a jerky nod.

“Tell Peake that if he wants to keep using me to thin his bannermen, I’m willing to oblige, but I’d really rather cut to the chase and face him. I’ll even keep things fair, and fight him bare handed if he wants,” Steve said.

The man nodded again, eyes darting from knight to knight.

“Oh, and call him a bitch if he declines,” Steve added.

This time, the nod came more reluctantly.

“Good man. Off you go.”

He couldn’t leave fast enough, turning and running, feet near tumbling over one another.

Steve shook his head, turning back to the bridge. “Come on,” Steve said to those fighting with him. He couldn’t see any of their faces, but their postures told the story clearly enough that he could imagine. “Let’s get back into position so Peake can throw his next trick at us.”

They left the Reach side of the river, and the rows of corpses behind, walking back to their side with pep in their steps. It was a queer feeling for some of them, feeling almost undefeatable while the river battle raged on either side, but they were beginning to understand the attitude of those they’d spoken to from Lord America’s company.

The day wasn’t over yet, and Peake surely had more tricks and more bodies to throw at them, but whatever came, they would face it.