A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

The details of their escape took only a moment to iron out, and then they split, each group doing their best to look like they belonged. One of the groomsmen - more a groomsboy - slowed as he passed, eyeing the three of them as they leaned against the corral. Steve raised his hand in a casual wave, smiling, and after a moment the kid continued on with his empty sack of fodder.

Minutes stretched out with anxiety inducing sluggishness, Osric unable to help shifting from foot to foot. Beron was better, though stiffness was clear in his shoulders, and he stared out over the herd of horseflesh, gaze hardly shifting.

Both men found their attention drawn to Steve when he began to hum the tune to some ditty, tapping a beat on the rail they waited against. He raised a brow at their looks.

“Something on your minds?” Steve asked. His tone was concerned, but the twitch of his lip told the true story.

Acclimated to Steve’s understated shithousery, Osric only sighed. Beron was more disbelieving, but he had no time to voice his thoughts - a shout came from nearby, and an orange glow appeared in the same direction.

“That’s it,” Beron said, focus replacing anxiety as he looked back to the horses. His hand strayed to his dagger. “Mind the kick.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Steve said. Toby would kill him. He rubbed his hands together quickly, then spread his arms wide and clashed them together with a mighty clap.

He was no Hulk, no Thor, but it still sounded like the crack of thunder.

Amongst the herd, instinct and fear triumphed over training. A whinnying scream pierced the night as those nearest turned to flee, and like a wave, panic took the entire herd. Slowly at first, then faster, thousands of hoofbeats began to drum in the night as the horses ran to escape the sudden fright and the growing glow of fire, and they took the path of least resistance away from that which scared them - out through the main gate of the corral.

“STAMPEDE!” Steve bellowed, putting further fear into the animals. “After them quick, before they get away!”

Under the rails the three of them ducked, pursuing the herd across the rapidly emptying corral. They were not alone, groomsmen and squires brought running at the sudden commotion, but the panicked pursuit of the men in the face of the stampede did nothing to calm the animals down, and then it was too late. There was no stopping the tide of horseflesh as they thundered down the lane and towards the camp exit, towards the empty night.

Steve led the way down the lane after them, bravely pursuing the noble mounts, but he did not do so for long. A young squire zipped past, almost leaving them in the dust. Another man running nearby managed a scoff, pacing himself, but still they increased their speed. Walt, Henry, and Thomas caught up with the group of a dozen or so in the next moment, and Walt gave Steve a nod. There was a smear of blood on the hilt of his dagger.

The young squire flagged and slowed, the rest of the group passing him as he sucked in heavy breaths, running doggedly onwards. Had the situation been less serious, some of the men might have laughed or spurred him on, but there was no time for such thoughts. There was only the mix of panic that came from something going wrong in a war camp, and knowing that afterwards there would be nobles wanting answers. Onwards they ran, the camp on either side starting to buzz with activity. No man could hope to catch a horse on the gallop, but still they had to try.

As they neared the end of the lane, however, it narrowed, forcing the animals to slow as they surged and stamped, snapping and pushing at each other. A second wind took the pursuers, dangling hope before them - but then there was the sound of splintering wood, and the milling horses flowed out from the lane, past the last obstacle and into the night.

They followed after them for a hopeless minute, clearing the camp themselves, but reason and endurance soon caught up with them.

“Fuck me,” a man nearby swore, stumbling to a stop. The group stopped with him, Steve and his companions following suit. “We’ll never get them all back.”

“We have to try,” Steve said, staring grimly after the disappearing horses. “Lords will have our heads elsewise.”

“Hang on, fuck’s that?” another man said, looking back into the camp. The glow of the fire had expanded, and with their pursuit stopped, there was no ignoring it.

“Bet that’s what spooked ‘em,” Henry said, putting on a Reach accent as best he could. “Torch falling into the feed.”

“Them back there can deal with that,” Steve argued. “We ought ta split in two, try to keep with the horses. They’ll stop running once they calm, and we can guide them back.”

The first man blew out a breath, breathing still harsh, but nodded. “You’re right.” It was the one who had scoffed at the squire that had sped past them.

“You lot come with me then,” Steve said, happening to gesture to his five men. “We’ll swing around to the right.”

“I’ll go along with yez,” the man said, scratching at a shadowed cheek. He looked more like a hedge knight than a servant. “Keep the numbers even. Could be Stormlanders hiding out there.”

“Smart,” Steve said. “They’re a squirrely lot, them Stormlanders,” he said, looking to Beron and Thomas, as if commiserating.

Both men grumbled agreements, or perhaps just grumbled, and then the group split in two, taking off at a slow jog. Darkness pressed down around them, broken only by a partly shrouded moon and the glow from the camp behind them. Whatever was burning had grown into a blaze, even if it didn’t seem to be spreading through the camp.

Steve led the group on a wide arc, as if to swing around to come at the escaped horses from the east, but in truth to bring them closer to the location where they had stashed their mounts before infiltrating the camp. There was no conversation, each man saving their breath, though several meaningful glances were exchanged behind the back of their extra man. When the Reach camp was far behind them, and the time was right, Steve made his move.

“I’m awful sorry about this,” Steve said, falling in beside the man.

The man with them slowed, puzzled. Then his eyes widened in understanding. “Oh you absolute cad-”

A stern blow sent him stumbling, dazed, and quick hands went about rendering his tunic down for bindings, lashing him hand and foot. They wasted no time, and were quickly away, sniggering like schoolboys at the night’s work as they vanished into the night.

By the time the unfortunate man had his senses about himself once more, he was alone in the dark and barely able to do more than roll or hop. He cursed to himself; that blond haired, blue eyed bastard would rue the day. He didn’t know how, or when, but the day would come.

First, though, he had to get free and carry word back to the camp. He brought his wrists to his mouth and began to gnaw at the bindings that had been his clothing.

X x X

The next morning saw a high mood spread through the army despite the early rise and the hurried breaking of camp. Gossip had already spread of Lord America’s planned raid on the Reachmen, and now word came of its success, of the dozens - nay hundreds - of enemies slain, of the huge swathes of the camp that he had burnt down, backed by proper Stormlanders like Lord Rogers and Ser Storm of Greenstone. Even in the bustle that came with the stowing of tents and saddling of mounts, lords and knights found the time to pass by Steve’s section, angling for word of the raid. Most found themselves settling for one of his officers instead, the man himself busy with more important matters.

“Thank you for coming,” Steve said to the dozen smallfolk women before him, arrayed in a crescent in what had been a sparring circle. Around them, his men continued to pack their possessions and ready themselves for the day’s march.

The women said nothing, only watching with a mix of apprehension and cautious optimism. It was only the second day since they had found themselves under the care of the foreign lord’s company, but what they had witnessed in that time was enough to allay their worst fears.

“I meant to have this conversation with you yesterday, but the arrival of the Reach army got in the way,” Steve said, moving on smoothly. “Betty tells me that there have been some concerns over my intentions for you.”

Nervous eyes flicked to Betty, standing at his side, but she gave them an encouraging nod. She was not the only one of his people standing in on the meeting; Naerys stood at his right, and Lyanna stood at hers. Both were openly armed.

“I want to reassure you that I don’t mean to press you into service,” Steve said, meeting their eyes as best he could. “So I’ve got two options for you. One, you take a job with me, working under Betty for the same pay and with the same responsibilities as the rest of her girls. Two, we drop you off at the first castle or village we pass where it is safe to do so.”

Looks were exchanged amongst the women, a silent conversation occurring under his gaze.

“Lord America is a good lord,” Lyanna spoke up, drawing their attention. “What you saw - that’s how it always is. There’s no bad days.”

“Do we - must we choose now?” one woman asked. Her jaw was almost a rainbow of bruises, evidence of the blow she had suffered from a knight’s gauntlet, though the small cuts had scabbed over. She watched him like a rabbit might a fox.

“No,” Steve said. “You can choose to leave at any point, and I’ll pay you for your work until then.”

“If you have any questions, you can ask them of me, or Betty,” Naerys said. The sun played on her hair, giving it a shine that was usually absent, and Steve strangled the urge to run his fingers through it. “Or you might get the gossip from the other girls on the march.” She offered them a faint smile.

More looks were shared, but no consensus seemed to be reached.

“We will let you know when we decide, milord,” the bruised woman said, apparently nominated as their spokeswoman. She swallowed, watching him.

“Take your time,” Steve said. He turned to Betty. “You can fold them into our order again today?”

“I’ll see to it, milord,” Betty said. “Come on,” she said to the women, clucking her tongue. “We’ll find something better than making you sit ahorse today.”

More than one poorly hidden sigh of relief answered her as she led them away, off into the dissolving camp to join in the work.

Lyanna was frowning. “I thought they’d jump on it.”

“They’re still wary,” Naerys said, thumb tapping on her sword hilt.

“But - you don’t pass up a chance like this,” Lyanna said, frustration colouring her tone. “There’s folks that do so much to - and they’re just offered it, but they’re not sure?”

“It can be scary, making a choice that will have such different consequences,” Steve said.

Lyanna said nothing as she stared towards the lane the woman had disappeared down, lips pressed together so tightly they went white.

A glance was shared between Steve and Naerys, and she placed a hand at the girl’s elbow. “Lyanna?”

She twitched her gaze away, fists clenching at her sides. “Ma tried so hard to find a place with any lord that would have her, child and all, but the only places that would take us both were-” she cut herself off.

Steve found himself grimacing. Lyanna hadn’t shared much of her childhood, and they hadn’t pressed. Old pains often hurt the worst, more because there was little to be done to heal them but time.

“She earned you a place at Harrenhal, did she not?” Naerys asked.

“Cause she died, and wrangled a promise from the steward,” Lyanna said. Her voice was wet, and she would not look back towards the two of them. One fist came up to rub at her face.

Naerys stepped closer, the hand on her elbow becoming an arm around her shoulders. “It’s alright,” she murmured. She glanced to Steve, giving him a slight nod. She would take care of things.

“Dodger could help,” Steve said quietly.

Her free hand found his and gave a quick squeeze, one he returned, but her focus was on more important things. He stepped away, leaving Naerys to comfort Lyanna, and turned his attention to simpler matters. There was still a company to get moving.

X

Unlike the previous day, the Reach were not content to remain an unseen threat lurking over the horizon. Scouts and outriders rode hard to bring warning of approaching cavalry, of shining plate and billowing banners, as the chivalry of the Reach sallied forth to pursue them. Whether it was simply an attempt to claw back the distance the Stormlanders had gained, or in answer for the insult of the raid the night before, none could say, though that hardly mattered in the face of many lances of heavy cavalry seeking to slip past the knights of the Stormlands to wreak havoc on their marching columns. To march on was to risk much, but to stop was to play into the Reachmen’s hands, and none had ever accused the Stormlands of being the home of cowards. As noon approached, the first blood of the day was spilt, and the men under Lord Baratheon prepared themselves for a slog.

Steve was quick to have his soldiers take up position near the vulnerable baggage train. Though they could have contributed to the screening force, he did not like the thought of putting his light force up against heavy Reach cavalry, even if it would more likely be a battle of manoeuvres than an open fight. The servants and camp followers closest to the white star banner were thankful, its presence a reassuring one as distant horns sounded and responded. The day stretched on, the unseen menace wearing on the nerves of the men as they marched, but they could do little but trust in the knights to shield them, and so they did.

It was near to sunset when word came that the Reach forces had finally relented. Tales of their attempts to draw the screening forces out of position, to slip past to decimate the army while it was on the march, spread through the camp that night. Cheerful talk of the raid the night before was forgotten, and thoughts turned to the next day when the Reachmen would surely return.

They did, much earlier, before the sun had even finished rising. It was only the skill of the scouts that gave them warning, and another long, tense day began. For all that the Stormlands army was unusually cavalry heavy, the Reach force had more still, and the defence began to grind on knight and noble alike, forced to rotate out over the slow, grinding day.

Two more days passed the same, and for all that there were few casualties, it was becoming apparent that they could not maintain their defence. Sooner or later the enemy would slip through. The only unknown was how many, and how much damage they would do before they could be driven off.

On the fourth day of the harrying, that question was answered.

Steve was riding on the left flank of his chosen position, half the company with him, while Keladry led the other half on the right. Low grassy hills surrounded them, for all that the worn dirt road was wide as it twisted and turned between them, and the morning sun was warm, almost too warm in their armour. Then came the familiar horn blasts warning of approaching foe, but something was different. This time they were close. More horn blasts, urgency in their core, and a ripple of panic went along the columns on the road.

From over a nearby hill they came, half a lance strong. Near fifty riders at a steady canter, and for a moment they seemed as surprised to see the column as they were to see them. Then an order was shouted, and their lances came down. The speed of their canter began to increase.

They were not fresh, Steve’s keen eyes picking out sweat on the flanks of their horses, and scuff marks on their armour. This was a group that had already tangled with the screening force, but that was less important in the moment. He watched as the foeriders split into two groups, a pair of arrows descending on the column, and then he began to call orders, projecting his voice calm and sure.

“Artys, Hugo, Gerold, Talbert, Arland, Jakob, Ren,” Steve said, not looking away from the nearing foe. Those named, some from his squad, some not, looked to him in anticipation. “You’re with me. We’re hitting the left group. Yorick, you’ll lead everyone else at the right. Hit them from both sides; don’t challenge their wedge.”

“Aye ser!” came the answer, none questioning him.

Steve risked a glance behind him and saw Keladry directing Walt and Erik’s squads to join them. The column would not be left undefended. “Robin, stay here. I want three horses dead before we hit them, their leader’s first. You’ll join Walt’s squad and charge with him if necessary.”

“Aye ser,” Robin said, arrow already nocked and ready. His hands were steady.

The Reachmen drew nearer still.

“On me,” Steve said, hammer coming free from its harness, “we take them head on. Charge. Charge!”

The men roared their response, and their mounts surged forwards, clods of dirt kicked up in their wake. Steve’s group formed a wedge with him at the head, Ren in the middle of it with the white star banner held proud. Cheers came from the column behind them, soldiers and servants alike raising their voices for them, but they were quickly left behind. The Reachmen were charging now, the steepest section of the hill behind them. The leader of the left group couched his lance, visor slits intent on Steve as they neared.

An arrow sprouted from his horse’s mouth, and it collapsed without a sound, launching the knight from his saddle as it tumbled and rolled forward. Another arrow followed a heartbeat later, skimming over Steve’s shoulder just as the first one had, but bad luck saw its target toss its head and the arrow skittered off its barding. They were close enough to make out the whites of the foe’s eyes.

Another man slumped from his saddle, an arrow sticking from his visor, and then they collided with a brutal clash. Steve swept out with his hammer, taking a man in the chest and knocking him clear from his saddle, breastplate cratered. He did not stop there, the broken point of the enemy’s formation giving him leave to continue down one wing, hammer outstretched and cleaning up knights as he went, catching some few scant attempts at reply on his shield. Within a handful of heartbeats, half the wedge had been knocked from their horses or killed, and they had blown out the rear of the formation.

They slowed as best they could, stopping to turn and re engage, but there was no need. What was left of the group had dissolved into a single ragged line, and their shellshocked attempts to reform and hit their ultimate target were foiled by Walt’s squad planting themselves squarely in the way. Robin fired another arrow, hitting the front knight square in the forehead. The man’s head snapped back, even if his helm saved his life, and that was enough to make them think twice. A quick look over at what was left of the other group, pincered and set upon by Yorick and the men, had them thinking a third time, and that was enough. They turned their once dangerous charge down the line, fleeing, hurried on by the jeers and taunts of those that they had sought to run down.

“Injuries, report,” Steve ordered.

A chorus of answers came in the positive, but then Gerold spoke. “Bastard got me in the shoulder,” he said, holding his arm gingerly.

“You’re off to Corivo then,” Steve said, eyeing the other fight as it came to an end, the surrounded and pinned knights dropping their weapons and raising their arms in surrender. “Jakob, with him. Rest of you, on me.”

The excitement was over, but the day was not yet done, and enemies yet lurked beyond the hills. There were bodies and wounded to police, horses to add to the herd, and a guard to reset. The burdens of success.

Later, with the benefit of hindsight, Steve would look back at that moment and kick himself for assuming that it would be the most troublesome part of his day.

X

“You’re not serious,” Steve said, voice flat and unamused. The afternoon sun shaded the tent walls a dull orange.

“They are dead weight,” Cafferen said, just as unamused. “Need I remind you, Ser Rogers, that we have forty thousand Reachmen angry chasing us, and every minute counts!”

Another meeting had been called in Robert’s command tent, and another argument with the Lord of Fawnton had ensued once the biggest concern had been tabled for discussion. Lords still wore their armour, many still bearing evidence of the day’s work upon them as they sat and drank.

“They are our captives,” Steve said. His hands were laid out before him on the long table they sat at, still as the grave, the look on his face just as serious. “Wounded captives under our care. If you give an order to have them ‘dealt with’, it won’t just be angry Reachmen you have to worry about.”

“Ser Rogers, please,” Cafferen said, scornful now. “I am not some savage from beyond the sea. I would not even think to dishonour myself so.” He gave a crocodile’s smile. “The only Essosi in the camp is in your employ, and he is the very man caring for them, is he not?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at the man, wise to his game. There had been the start of displeased rumblings in the tent at the ‘savage’ comment, though they had subsided once he said his piece.

“My lords, we set the uninjured captives loose at the start of our march north, knowing we could not feasibly bring them with us,” Cafferen said, turning now to his fellow lords. “It is simply time to do the same with the wounded. We cannot afford to have them continue to slow us down any longer.”

Murmurings of agreement rose. Robert was nodding, though his mouth was hidden behind his hands, one fist in a palm. Samuel met Steve’s eyes across the table, giving a slight shrug and a nod. Steve rolled his eyes slightly, hiding very real irritation. He wasn’t so blind as to miss the stench of politics when it entered a room.

“In that case, I volunteer to oversee the handover,” Steve said. He gave Cafferen a look completely lacking in guile. “What, you weren’t going to leave a group of wounded men alone in the wilderness, were you?”

“No,” Cafferen said, taking care to avoid clenching his jaw. “Of course not.”

“Aye, that’ll work,” Robert said, setting his fist down on the table with a thump. “How many men do you want?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll manage with my own,” Steve said, ignoring the angry flush that settled on Cafferen’s face. “We’ll probably come into contact with someone of note. Did you want me to pass a message on?”

“Tell them they’re a bunch of cunts,” Robert said, almost reflexively.

The appraising look that Samuel had been giving Steve turned to one of weary resignation as a laugh rose around the tent.

“I’ll be polite about it,” Steve said to the old lord.

Robert groaned, running a hand down the heavy afternoon shadow of his beard. “Tell them that my fight is with Aerys, not them, but it’ll be my boot up their arse if they keep pushing. Again.” He glanced at Samuel. “Happy?”

“Very,” the old lord said, dry as a desert.

A soft sound came from beneath the table, too quiet to be heard by normal ears, but Steve heard it, and he saw the man sitting next to Cafferen shift, like someone had tapped his boot out of sight.

“Not to volunteer you, Lord Errol,” Ser Fell, the one known as Silveraxe, said, “but would it not be best for someone of your…stature to carry Lord Baratheon’s words?” He glanced at Steve. “Lord America is a formidable warrior, but they may take your words more seriously coming from a Stormlord.”

“It’ll be fine, Silveraxe,” Robert said, waving a hand in dismissal. “After the trouble he’s given them I’d say they know Steve’s name as well as any of us here, and I want Samuel on hand to make sure things run smooth.”

“As you say, my lord,” Silveraxe said, unbothered.

“Right then, that’s sorted,” Robert said. “What’s next? Any word from outriders on the next waterway?”

There was more business to see to as the sun continued to set, more demands that came with directing an army in the field, but that was just business, nothing to stir the ire of any lord as much as the start of the meeting had. If Lord America and Lord Cafferen chose to ignore one another, that was their concern, and certainly not something noted by those present with the eyes to see it.

X

It was midmorning when a force of cavalry, five hundred strong, came trotting around the last bend in the road. It was an intimidating sight, banners of powerful Houses flapping proudly in the wind, announcing the coming of the lords in elaborate armour that rode before them. The column was ten horses wide, sprawling off the dirt path on either side, and they did not seem to be slowing as they approached the lonely banner before them that bore a single white star. The thunder of hoofbeats grew louder, filling the air and drowning out what little conversation there had been amongst those they neared.

It would perhaps have been more intimidating if Steve’s own scouts hadn’t noticed the enemy outriders carrying word of their presence back to the harrying forces earlier, but then, there was little point in trying to hide the collection of tarps and tent poles straddling the road. He watched as they waited until they were almost upon them to slow, a slight gesture from the leader causing a trumpet to sound the command.

Steve watched as the mass of cavalry came to a halt, sitting in the shade at the front of his little camp. He had a small table before him, a jug and two goblets upon it, and a single chair sitting empty across from him. The lords at the front of the cavalry force regarded him for a long moment, letting it stretch out. He took a sip from his goblet and regarded them in turn.

The leader dismounted smoothly, the large green and gold plume atop his helm waggling with the motion. He possessed a powerful frame, accentuated by the gilded and decorated armour he wore, and had a sword on one hip and a war pick on the other. His gaze, shadowed by his helm, turned to sweep over the wounded occupants laid out behind him, seen to by Corivo and his assistant Ed and assisted by a handful of women, before turning to the stone-faced soldiers standing watch in neat lines around them. Finally, he reached up to doff his helm, setting it in the crook of his elbow. A handsome faced man was revealed, the brown moustache atop his lip curling at the ends. He looked to be of an age with Naerys.

“That banner,” the man said. “You must be Lord America.” He regarded him for a moment, taking in his casual posture and heavy armour. “You’ve made quite a mess of my supply lines.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, inclining his head but making no move to rise. “You must be Lord Tyrell.”

“I am,” he said. “Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Warden of the South, etcetera, etcetera.” He waved the titles off, as if dismissing their consequence, before nodding to the empty chair. “May I?”

“Please,” Steve said. “Would you like a drink?”

“I would,” Mace said, sitting carefully on the wooden chair.

Steve poured, knowing the chair would hold - it was one of his own, after all - and offered the goblet of wine to the man.

“My thanks,” Mace said, sampling it. “Oh, this is quite good. I imagine you took it from Lord Tarly’s supplies?”

One of the men, still mounted behind him in the front row, shifted minutely, a familiar banner just behind him.

“Yours, actually,” Steve said. “From the camp at the head of the Blueburn.”

Mace paused mid sip, but only for a moment. “Well, clearly I have excellent taste.” He set the goblet down, watching Steve closely. “I have heard some interesting things about you, Lord America.”

“That sounds like a polite way of saying something impolite,” Steve said. He took another sip from his own goblet, letting the moment drag out. He could hear the shifting of his men behind him, a groan of pain from a patient, and the soft whicker of a horse. “Who’d you hear it from?”

“Lord Tarly, Lord Meadows, even a Lord Sestor out by the border - although perhaps that was his uncle,” Mace mused. “Never had I heard such complimentary things about someone from those who were beaten so handily by them.”

“I guess they’re just swell sorts,” Steve said.

“Quite,” Mace said. He shifted in his armour. “You realise that this discussion does not delay my army, nor does it prevent my knights from harassing yours?”

“I figured,” Steve said, shrugging slightly. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“You do not mean to ambush me, surely,” Mace said, lips pursed and looking at him like an indulgent teacher might a student.

“With the men I have waiting behind the next hill? No,” Steve said.

“You’re quick to admit to that,” Mace said.

“Well, your scouts finally noticed them as you approached, so,” Steve said, shrugging as he lied. The Reach scouts hadn’t missed them the first time, because they hadn’t been called forward yet.

Mace gave a small ‘hmm’, intent as he watched him. “Then we might as well get down to business,” he said.

“Might as well,” Steve said. His gaze went to the row of lords still mounted, memorising their armour and banners even if he couldn’t see their faces.

“What would you have of the Lord of Highgarden in exchange for the return of his troops?” Mace asked, near slapping his hand on his knee with a clatter.

“Nothing,” Steve said.

“Nothing?”

“I may not know how this ransom business works,” Steve said, putting on his ‘aw shucks I’m really not sure mister but I’ll do my best’ expression of earnestness, “but I figure the captive has to be at least a knight to be worth anything.”

“You are not incorrect,” Mace said. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple, armour hot even in the shade.

“So let’s call this a good faith gesture, and treat each other’s captive and wounded as we’d hope for our own to be treated,” Steve said. “I’ve had my man Corivo - he’s a doctor from Myr - seeing to your people as much as mine.”

“The quality of your character lives up to what I have been told,” Mace said, taking another sip of his wine. “A fine suggestion. I agree.”

“The ladies helping out are your people, too,” Steve said.

“Oh?” Mace said, gaze going back to them, more intent now.

“They were servants in Lord Tarly’s camp, but I took them in after some less scrupulous folk came across them,” Steve said. “They’ve asked to return to working for their home kingdom rather than for me.” Not all had - only about half - but Steve wasn’t going to mention that.

“Ah,” Mace said, interest dimming. “How chivalrous.” He jiggled a leg under the table. “Is that to be our business concluded?”

“There was one more thing,” Steve said, as if just remembering. “Robert - Lord Baratheon, I mean - wanted me to tell you that his fight is with Aerys, not you…” he sighed, “but if you keep pushing, it’ll be his boot up your arse.”

Mace tittered, even as his bannermen stirred in their saddles. “That does match what I know of Lord Baratheon.” He took a long sip of his wine, finishing the goblet, and set it down. “I will keep that in mind, with the consideration it deserves.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Steve said, acting like the double meaning had flown over his head.

Mace rose, inclining his head and turning away without another word. For a moment it appeared that was it, but then the man paused, as if remembering something. “Actually, there was just one more thing, Lord America.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“I am actually quite annoyed with you, Lord America,” Mace said, still with his back turned, speaking over his shoulder. “I went to great time and effort to personally arrange the timetables of harvesting and shipping to ease the way of my armies, and you ruined one of them.” His easy manner fell away, as did his faint smile. “There is no guest right here, pleasant as this little meeting was. You are a potent threat to my forces. I could give the order.”

“What would you like me to tell your family?”

Mace blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You could give the order,” Steve said, acknowledging the threat. “But then you would die. So, what would you like me to tell your family?”

The Reach lord turned now, facing him fully. “You are very confident for a man facing the flower of Reach chivalry.”

“You’re the man who put himself within grabbing distance,” Steve said. He put his goblet down, not blinking.

Lords and soldiers close enough to hear began to shift in their saddles, uneasy, while Steve’s men were near as still as statues. Mace took a step forward, closing the gap between them. He stared, meeting Steve’s gaze without flinching.

“You mean it,” Mace said, more intrigued than fearful. “You would throw your life away rather than surrender.”

“I would survive,” Steve said, one side of his mouth turning down, “but many of my soldiers would not.”

“I see,” Mace said, gaze flitting over to them. He seemed to come to a decision. “That is…admirable, I suppose.”

Steve said nothing, only waiting.

“Then, in thanks for preserving the life of loyal Reachmen, and for fostering the bonds of honour even in a time of rebellion,” Mace began, raising his voice slightly, letting it be heard by more than just those closest, “I grant you safe passage, so long as you return directly to Baratheon forces and raise no hand against my own in that time.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, Lord Tyrell,” Steve said, still almost lounging in his chair. “I accept.”

Mace gave him one last look, before turning again and making for his horse. “My lords, we have reached an accord! Now let us make for the Stormland army, and show them the mistake they made in venturing into a field of thorns!”

A cheer went up in answer, and Steve rose to see to his own business, ignoring the Reach lord as he continued to give orders. He had men to organise and a second in command to placate.

“-Lord Peake, have your man see to the wou-”

Steve turned back, gaze fixed on the lord that Mace was speaking with. His banner had fallen behind another, hiding it until now, but now he saw it, three black castles on a field of orange. The man himself only glanced at Steve, hardly sparing him a moment, but it was enough, and now Steve knew his face. He looked away, focusing on the matter at hand. His business with Peake would come later.

Under his direction, Steve’s men were quick to depart, leaving the parley point behind, and he paused only to accept a hurried, whispered thanks from one of the women that his men had saved. He did not notice the considering gaze of one of the Reach lords, one who had seen his reaction to Peake, and was soon on his way, returning to his own army.

The man considered what he had seen, and what it might mean. At length, he smiled, hidden under his helm as he followed his lord. Opportunity knocked.