A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

Arrangements were made quickly, and then Steve went looking for the men he had decided would join him. Walt was a lock, the old soldier exactly the kind of calm the job required, and he had accepted Thomas Storm’s offer. The man might be an unknown, but he had Robert’s support and he had the kind of manner that reminded Steve of old Monty Falsworth. He just needed one or two more. Erik would have been suitable, another old soldier blooded in the last war here, but Steve was looking to the future, and that meant giving up and comers the chance to gain new skills.

“Henry,” Steve said, finding the man he was looking for.

The young hedge knight looked up, the small gathering he was part of quieting down with the arrival of a noble. Of the dozen or so there, only half were Steve’s people. Yorick and Harwin were amongst them, and he gave them a nod of greeting. The rest were strangers, though they looked to be knights of varying fortunes. Dodger was with them, begging for scraps of the stew they were eating with sad eyes and a droopy ear, as if his belly wasn’t already visibly full.

“Ser?” Henry asked.

“How’re you feeling? Up for a ride and a bit of mischief?” Steve asked.

Something about his tone had Henry straightening, the mostly empty bowl in his hands put to the side. “Mischief? Like the supply camp, or Pentos?”

“Pentos,” Steve said. “In and out, no fighting, back in time for dessert.”

“Didn’t you burn down a manor hou-” he started, cutting himself off. “Will I need my armour?”

“No need,” Steve said. “Those clothes will do.”

Henry looked down at the travel stained trousers and tunic he wore.

“Bring that wineskin, too,” Steve added.

“I thought he meant to raid?” one of the unknown knights whispered to another, low enough that a normal man couldn’t have heard.

“I heard the Dothraki drink before they raid,” was the whispered reply. “But he said no fighting, so-”

“Aye ser,” Henry said, rising to his feet. “How many others are coming?”

“Walt, Thomas Storm,” Steve said.

“Lord Robert’s bastard cousin?” Harwin asked, looking up from the soup he was sipping at carefully. The blow to the face he had taken during the battle was a spread of yellows and purples, though he could still see out from the affected eye, even if it seemed that eating was a pain.

“Second cousin,” one of the strangers said, voice not quite sharp.

“Of Greenstone, if that’s him,” Steve said, not particularly invested in the politics of bastardry. “One or two more, too. Have you seen Osric?”

“I have,” Henry said. “I can take you to him.”

“Lead on,” Steve said. “Fellas,” he said to the rest. He received a chorus of ‘Captain’ and then they were picking their way through the surrounding tents, heading towards the nearest camp lane.

A low conversation started back at the fire, its owner expecting Steve to be out of earshot. “He’s not what I expected,” the man said. “The size is right, but I thought he was a noble…”

Anything further was blocked by the noise of the camp traffic and the tents in the way, and Henry led the way along the narrow lane. What had been a grassy field was now well stamped flat, and if they were to spend more than a night there it would soon turn to mud.

“Making new friends?” Steve asked.

“We’ve been popular, after the battle,” Henry said. Strong shoulders shrugged. “They were happy to share wine in return for stories.”

Suspicion pricked in Steve’s hindbrain. “Eager to hear of our adventures, are they?”

“Anything, really,” Henry said. A pair of squires ran past them, quick to get out of the way as they jostled each other, grinning. “Some of them are definitely trying to see what it would take to join, but Yorick had to set one straight about what happened with the Reach camp followers.”

“I see,” Steve said. The very last of the sun was slipping below the horizon, and darkness arrived in truth, held back only by the torches staked into the ground along the lanes of the camp and the scattered campfires within it.

Something in his tone made the hedge knight glance over to him. “We’re not standing for any gossip,” Henry said. “Someone was speaking ill of - well, we sorted it.”

“Speaking ill,” Steve said, feeling a frown coming on.

“We saw to it,” Henry assured him. “Hugo carried him off and dumped him in a laundry barrel.”

“Well, so long as you followed the proper procedures,” Steve said lightly. It sounded pretty typical of soldiers and their talk, but he made plans to check in with his people all the same.

Henry laughed, and conversation turned to the running of the company, and the small troubles that came with integrating it with the army. The small luxuries they had commandeered from Grassfield Keep were on their last legs, only the carefully rationed remnants of dried fruits remaining, and the stores of Tarly’s force had been ransacked by others. They would have to be faster if they wanted to resupply on treats, but at least their stock of wine was still holding steady.

“How did your talk with Osric go?” Steve asked as they stopped at an intersection of lanes, waiting for a trio of wagons to roll through, bearing water and firewood.

Round face frowning, Henry nodded all the same. “It’s still fresh, but he’s holding well enough.” After the battle, he had been asked to speak with the ex-goat herder, checking on him after the loss of one of his squad members. “I got the feeling it wasn’t his first loss.”

Steve nodded. He didn’t know what exactly had driven Osric and his group to the Vale muster, but he knew it had something to do with a family conflict, and that they had perhaps left their home in a hurry. “I appreciate you doing that.”

“Happy to, Captain,” Henry said, a small grin on his face. “Osric should be just up here, too.” The wagons passed, the way clear, and they set off again.

Henry was right, their target not much further along the lane. He was one of several gathered around a water cart, a torch set by the driver’s seat, in a group that was mostly Steve’s men, but the identity of one of the others made Steve’s brow rise as he saw the man and Osric talking and joking together.

Osric had made great strides in the months since Steve had first stumbled across him and his friends, off to have some fun with their slings. The training he had been put through had given him strength, but it was the leading of men in combat that had changed him the most - no longer did he duck away from attention, or find his words tripping over themselves when he spoke to knights and nobles. Now he carried with him a quiet confidence, taking pride in more than just his skill with a sling, and it was something shared by all his friends. Six months ago, the slinger never would have dared to talk easily with a lord like Beron Rogers as he was then.

“Osric, Ser Rogers,” Steve said, stepping into a lull in their conversation.

“Ser Rogers,” Beron said, inclining his head with a faint smile.

“Captain,” Osric said. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, one shared by the rest of Steve’s men that were there - all were members of Osric’s squad. “We were just getting some practice in.” He gave a nod to Henry, and received one in turn.

“Good,” Steve said, looking them over with approval. “Not pushing yourselves too hard?” They had a water keg opened, and were using a ladle to refill their waterskins as they drained them.

“No ser,” Osric said, blond hair set to shaking with his head. “Just enough to stay in practice. Some spear work, too.”

Steve spared a moment to wonder if Jaime had kept up with the hand to hand he’d shown him. “How’s that coming?”

Osric grimaced, but it was a put upon thing. “Talbert thrashed me again.”

There was amusement from the listening squad, and the few strangers. Apparently they had witnessed the training.

“When you can best me, you should challenge Walt,” Talbert said, not quite rolling his eyes. He was one of the men who had joined Steve to steal away the horses of the bandit hunters, and his nose was still as squashed as ever. “Then if you best him, challenge Keladry.”

Mock groans came from the group. “And then the Captain himself, while you’re at it!” someone said.

“I would not have called it a thrashing,” Beron said to Steve. “Nor would I have believed your man here to have been a mere goatherd six moons past.” He paused, a considering look in his grey-blue eyes. “Your training must be something, for your men to be so at ease with night fighting. I see why Robert gave you leave to train his squire.”

“It’s the trainees who do the work,” Steve said, though his thoughts were arrested by the rest of the comment. His training with Bryn had only been that same afternoon, but already it seemed word had spread of it. “Would you like to see it in action?”

“At the next battle?” Beron asked, seemingly open to the idea. “You would have us ride together?”

“Tonight,” Steve said. “I’m here to collect Osric, and then we’re picking up Walt and Ser Thomas Storm. See if we can’t stir up some trouble at the Reach camp.” Osric perked up, his youth shining through.

Beron’s brows rose slightly, and the two men - his knights, likely - exchanged a look behind him. “I had heard about that. I cannot claim disinterest.” He glanced between Henry at Steve’s back and Osric, both men clearly eager.

“Well, we’re leaving as soon as we find the others,” Steve said. “You’d need your worst clothes and a skin of wine you wouldn’t mind losing.”

“Wine and- how do you mean to slip past their watch?” Beron asked, bemused and amused.

“I figure we’ll walk right up to them,” Steve said. “What do you say?”

A glimmer of realisation appeared in Beron’s eyes, and he let out a breath. “With such a foolproof plan, how can I decline?”

“That’s the spirit,” Steve said.

One of the knights was less enthused. “Beron, perhaps one of us should go in your place.”

Beron sighed, shaking his head. “That will not be necessary.”

“My lord, without an heir-”

“Thank you, Tyrek,” Beron said, and for all that his tone was still mild, his knight subsided.

“I’ll keep him in one piece,” Steve said to the man, sympathetic, as if he’d never given anyone a heart attack by going off into danger. He received a grudging nod in return, and clapped his hands together. “Well, time’s wasting. I’ll fetch Walt and Thomas, and we’ll all meet up at the second corral.”

“Aye ser,” Osric said, almost bouncing on his heels, though he turned to speak with his squad before leaving. Henry was already jogging away, back the way they had come.

“Remember, bad clothes and worse wine,” Steve said to Beron. The lord nodded seriously as he left, even as the enthusiasm of the others began to infect him. Osric was still speaking with his squad, so he only clapped him on the shoulder as he left, leaving him to it. It was good to see him growing.

X

The Reach camp was less a camp and more a cluster of them, almost bulging out in four spikes from the central field it was arranged in, only a short distance from a small stream. Each camp seemed to be dominated by one faction or another, though the ‘spike’ to the east was more motley and ill defined. Steve being Steve, he chose to approach from the east, but only because that seemed to be the easiest way to reach the most central camp, dominated by green banners that bore roses of gold.

It was edging into late evening when six men stumbled out from a small gulley between two low hills to the south of the camps, their path lit by the moon. The stench of booze wafted from them, and if anyone had been watching, they would have seen them horsing around, shoving and joking before silencing themselves poorly. No one would suspect that they had just spent an hour threading around the outer scouting picket that was on high alert for approaching Stormland formations.

“I can’t believe you wasted that wine, Beron,” Thomas said, lamenting the great crime.

“Steve said to bring wine I wouldn’t mind losing,” Beron said. Formality hadn’t lasted long into the sweeping ride they made to make their approach from the correct direction, even if they still took amusement in ‘Ser Rogers’-ing each other.

Thomas made a noise of disgust. “And you brought a Dornish Red to bathe under while I drink sweet Riverlands.”

“It was a poor year. I thought you were forbidden Dornish Red after you- the thing during our squiring,” Beron said.

Thomas grumbled to himself, but he couldn’t hide the amusement on his face. He rubbed at his beard and short hair, sticky from wine. “I can still appreciate it.”

“I want to hear more about the squiring thing,” Steve said, from where he led the way, glancing back. “And whatever dirt Thomas has on you that keeps you quiet about it.”

Now it was Beron’s turn to grumble, and the low laughs from Henry and Osric drifted off into the night. Walt only shook his head.

The shift of boots on dirt caught Steve’s ear. “So long as yez shut up when we get near the camp,” he said, putting on an accent similar to that he had heard in the villages they had passed through in their raids. “We’ll be back in bed ‘afore we’re missed.”

“Bit late for that one,” a voice called from ahead, rising from the long grass of the hill they were rounding.

The six of them jolted at the sudden words, freezing in place.

“The sers will have your hides for this,” the man said, and it was clear he was a sentry, the moonlight illuminating the glare on his face. “Come on then.”

Steve began to move again, glancing between his apparent co-conspirators and the sentry with wariness in his shoulders. They hunched in on themselves, hunted, crowding together behind him like naughty schoolboys. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he turned back to the sentry. Wordlessly, he raised his half empty wineskin, jiggling it with a meaningful look.

“...fuck,” the sentry said, sighing. “Fine, but be quick about it, and if you get caught and mention me I’ll cut your fucking noses off.” He took the skin, pointedly looking away as the six of them hurried past.

Henry couldn't help but snigger as they passed, earning a shove from Walt, but that only seemed to add to the image they were portraying, and then they were leaving him behind, nothing else between them and the Reach camp.

When they reached their destination, there were no hails, no questions, just the occasional apathetic glance from those making their camp on the outskirts of it. There was little organisation to the layout of the tents and the paths, just the bare minimum to prevent a mess, and if there was anyone of authority there, they kept to themselves. Barefoot, clad in old or ragged clothes and with only daggers for weapons, they did not look like they posed any threat as they walked deeper. Here and there they passed men rolled up in bedrolls by guttering fires, or in small tents if they were lucky. Some drank quietly, others stared at nothing, and Steve realised that some of these men were those that had escaped the field of battle, now rallied and folded into this new army. They did not have the look of men eager to fight.

The further they went, however, the more the mood of the camp changed. Tents became more common, lanes straighter, and fewer were the battle-tired soldiers. Where before they had fit in, soon they would start to do less so, if only because they would seem to have wandered beyond their station. They were nearing the edge of the central camp, and in the distance, Steve could hear singing.

Stopping to mug some poor soldier or soldiers likely carried more risk than looking slightly out of place, and so they continued on. The singing drifted from a large tent at the heart of the camp, more a marquee, and it seemed that a feast was in progress. The corral they sought was past it, apparently located for protection and quick access rather than swift egress, but they drew closer with each step, kept from rushing by Steve’s swaying lead.

“Oi, Warrick,” Steve said as they passed a group of men holding spears and shields rather than wineskins. “Harry reckons he can take you in an arm wrestle.”

“Does he now,” Walt said, turning a glower on the younger man.

“Hang on, I never said that,” Henry said, still bearing a healthy wariness of the old man who had harried and harangued the company through their training despite being twice the age of most of them.

“Yeah he did, I heard him say it,” Osric piped up.

“No, wait-”

Walt growled. “Listen here you little shit-”

The others snorted as they continued on, arguing and mocking as they went, just another group of soldiers searching for some mirth to stave off the reality of war, even if only for a night.

They were not the only ones walking the camp looking to avoid attention as they pursued their fun, though there seemed to be some agreement between them and those on duty not to see each other, as the sounds of the noble feasting grew louder against the quietness of the night.

Things changed when one of the men they passed glanced up at Steve as he neared and froze, moustache quivering as his mouth fell open. Steve stilled in turn as familiarity nagged at him, and it took only a heartbeat to recognise where from - it was the man in charge of the supply caravan that they had captured between Ser Haighsley’s holdfast and Lord Sestor’s keep. He was holding a pair of boots, and when Steve’s gaze dipped to them, the man clutched them tight to his chest.

His moment of warranted trauma cost him, as Steve reached out to seize him, one hand clasping his mouth shut, the other taking him by the arm and dragging him into a nearby tent that seemed empty. The others reacted smartly, following him in and leaving a deserted lane behind them.

“Who’s this?” Thomas asked, brusque.

Whatever levity had shrouded them was gone, and now they were all business.

“A knight who recognised me,” Steve said. The tent was empty, but only for now, a pair of bedrolls waiting for their owners, and he set the man down in the centre, keeping him muzzled. “He was leading a supply caravan we captured a couple of months ago.”

They surrounded the captive, forced by the size of the tent to crowd close. The poor man looked up at them, eyes growing wild as they roved from face to face, and he clutched his boots even tighter to his chest.

“What’s to do with him then?” Walt asked. One thumb was tapping against the hilt of his rondel dagger at his hip.

Steve glanced down at the man. “That’s up to him.”

He began to make pleading sounds, trying to speak past the hand across his mouth.

“I’m going to take my hand away,” Steve said, “but if you look like you’re going to scream, I will have to break your neck. Do you understand?”

Frantic nods were his answer.

The others tensed as Steve started to remove his hand, but the captive only sucked in a breath.

“So,” Steve said, hands held easily at his sides, but clearly still a threat. “I didn’t get your name last time.” That was because he was interrogating them and they didn’t want to give him an inch, but still.

The man swallowed, steadying himself. “I am Ser Omar Stackhouse, of House Stackhouse.” He let out a breath through his nose, rustling his finely trimmed moustache. It was unfortunately narrow, but not so much as to make Steve itch to start punching.

“Right. Omar, do you mind if I call you Omar? Omar, we have a bit of a problem here. I’m obviously not supposed to be here, and if word got out, me and my boys here would be in a bit of trouble,” Steve said, not giving him the chance to respond. “I’m not fond of killing captives, but if it comes down to your life and the lives of my men, well. You see my dilemma.”

Omar was looking overwhelmed, but he managed a jerky nod. “No, I understand Lord America.”

“That’s great news Omar,” Steve said, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly. The others exchanged looks as Steve spoke, some disbelieving, others on the verge of laughter. “I’m going to tie you up and gag you of course, but do I have your word that you won’t try to escape for at least half an hour?”

Bewildered, there was nothing for Omar to do but nod, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“That’s great Omar,” Steve said again. "There's just one more thing." His gaze went to the shoes the man still held tight.

“Oh, please no,” Omar said, like he had suffered great trials and tribulations to get his hands on the boots. They were a nice pair, so perhaps he had.

Steve felt a little mean, but he also felt like he owed the man for making him think he was digging his grave in front of him. Maybe this would give him a new memory to drown out the old. “A nice pair of leather boots like this, you want to take care of them. Get some water and vinegar, about ten to one mix, and you’ll be able to keep them supple and clean. Nothing worse than water-logged feet on campaign.”

Confusion reigned across Omar’s face, even as Osric started shaking silently behind him. There was a tearing sound as Walt began to repurpose a sheet he had found for bindings, and in short order, the Reachman was bound and gagged, thoroughly trussed up.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Henry said as they left, unable to help himself.

Omar gave an indignant noise, not completely cowed, or perhaps just braver now that he knew his boots were safe. Osric slipped a pillow under his head as they filed out, back into the night and back on the path to their objective.

“That is not how I would have expected such a thing to go,” Beron said.

“I was expecting blood,” Thomas said.

“Not him,” Walt said, almost grunting.

“Captain doesn’t kill if he doesn’t have to,” Osric said.

“You made quite a showing during the battle,” Beron observed, non judgemental.

“I’ll do it again, too,” Steve said, the small amusement he had been feeling fading at the thought. “But not unless I have to.”

Beron made a considering sound, and spoke no more, turning introspective.

They continued on, unable to muster the same mood of cheer as before, but none stopped them. Now they just seemed another group of tired soldiers, trudging through the camp as the scent of fine food drifted through the air. No more familiar faces were stumbled across, and they neared their goal unaccosted, though they were not alone, and a small number of servants and grooms could be seen going about their tasks. They followed a small group of men and boys carrying brushes and feed bags at a distance.

When they reached the large corral, it was to find a large herd of mostly quiescent horses. From the looks of them, these were not the mounts of the higher nobility, but they were still fine enough to likely grab Toby’s interest. Here and there guards could be seen around the large enclosure. At a glance, there were maybe two thousand horses, and this corral was only one of several.

“Well, we’re here,” Walt said, spitting over the rail as they stopped against it. “What now?”

“Now,” Steve said slowly, taking it all in, “I think we’ll start a fire.”

Walt chortled, setting Henry and Osric to shivering as they remembered the last time he had been so gleeful, back in the early days of training when someone had complained.

“Those servants are bringing fodder from nearby,” Beron said, tilting his head towards them, then the direction they came from. “Likely still in their wagons.”

Surreptitiously, the others attempted to glance the same way as one. It wasn’t very surreptitious.

“Walt, Thomas, Henry,” Steve said. “Up for a bit of light arson?”

“Always,” Walt said. The others nodded.

“Beron and Osric, you’ll stay with me then,” Steve said. “As soon as we see fire, we’ll spook the horses.”

“Seems like they’d stampede down the road,” Thomas said, eyeing it. It seemed designed to funnel the cavalry out of the camp and into the field where they could organise themselves as quickly as possible, mitigating the downside of a more protected corral.

“If we’re lucky, they’ll do that and then keep going,” Steve said.

“Don’t want to set them to charging through the camp?” Thomas asked.

“We could,” Steve said, “but I don’t know the Reach commanders, or how they might react to that. I don’t think Robert wants to bait them all into following him north.”

Thomas hummed, nodding.

“Any questions?” Steve asked. There were none. “Then let’s cause some mischief.”