A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

Fury tossed his head as he cantered over Mastford Bridge, white mane gleaming under the morning sun. The Stormlanders arranged on the banks of the Mander raised their voices to cheer him on his way, exulting the warrior on his back.

“Ameri-ca! Ameri-ca! Ameri-ca!” came the roar, rolling along the banks and across the fields.

Word had spread quickly of Steve’s challenge the day before, inspiring the men to even greater heights, and with the way the Reach army had made no move to engage that morning, it was clear that Peake could no longer ignore the thrown gauntlet.

Knights clapped them on the shoulders as the two men trudged back over the gore-slicked stone, and squires came forward to help them once they made it through the impromptu honour guard. They let them, the fighting done for that day. Once they had been relieved of their weapons and given water, however, Robert waved them away, waiting until they stood alone on the bridge before he turned to the man beside him.

“Steve,” he said. “What did he do?”

For a moment, Steve was quiet, considering. “He raped a smallfolk woman.”

“Ah.” Robert looked around, taking in the carnage they had wrought and the retreating foemen. “This will be remembered.” He sucked in a breath. "Good."

Robin drew even with his knight master as they made their final approach to the Reach lines. His mount had a pair of bows on it, though his own was closer to hand, and he had been staring, hawkish, at the leader of the party waiting for them.

Steve didn’t bother to caution him as they began to slow, coming to their welcoming party at a walk. The kid might have nursed a black hatred for the excuse of a man they were about to deal with, but it was cooled by the knowledge of what was about to happen to him.

Barely a stone’s throw from the ranks of Reachmen, the two of them stared down their welcoming party. Peake was at its head, but almost a dozen lords had come with him. Steve didn’t think they were there to offer their support; Peake’s shoulders were stiff and one hand was already holding his sword hilt. The days since the battle had started had not been kind to him - the lines at the corners of his eyes had become more pronounced, and there were faint bags under his eyes.

“Reach lords,” Steve said, glancing them over. “Peake.”

Heads were inclined, but none spoke, still following Peake’s lead. Lord Fossoway was one of them, and his eyes betrayed his amusement with the situation. For a long moment, Peake only stared Steve down, teeth clenched. An eagle cried somewhere overhead.

“Your message claimed you would come alone,” Peake said at last, a thread of accusation clear in his voice. “Is your word so little?”

Steve made a point of looking from the group to his squire, then back. “Are you…threatened by him?”

Peake’s lip curled as he seethed, his mood not helped by the faint huff of amusement from one of the lords with him.

“You might insist on lowering yourself with base insults-”

“Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelled of elderberries,” Steve interrupted him. He had no time for noble games, not with this man. “Now state your terms, or bravely run away.” His words spurred a ripple of disgust and pity, all of it aimed at the embattled lord.

A gauntlet creaked as it squeezed a hilt. “If I am to grant a duel to a foreign sellsword with no lineage, you will make it worth my while,” Peake said, looking down his nose at him.

“I’d offer to tie my hands behind my back, but it’s not going to make a difference,” Steve said. Even as he spoke, he was growing sour. The taunting had been necessary, he could even admit that it had been fun, but now that Peake was before him, he was growing tired of it, and of him.

“Should I grant this to you, you will agree not to defend your line tomorrow, no matter the outcome,” Peake said, ploughing on as he attempted to ignore the insult.

“No,” Steve said flatly. "If you wanted to make demands you should've shown up the first time you were called instead of letting your men die for you like a coward."

Again Peake’s grip tightened around his sword hilt, visibly holding back his first response. Given his conduct in the field, Steve would feel bad about calling him a coward, but it wasn’t his behaviour in war that had given him cause to despise him.

They sat by the fire, the only two still awake. Smooth rasps rose about the crackle of the fire as Keladry worked at the blade of her glaive, a rare frown on her face.

“How is it?” Steve asked. He too was working away at something, wood shavings littering his feet.

“It could be worse,” she said, making another pass. “The notch is small enough, even if it is noticeable to me.”

“Didn’t pick any more up on the bridge, at least,” Steve said.

“I would have to misuse it terribly for typical steel to damage it as Tarly’s sword did,” Keladry said. “It was gifted to my mother by a prince of Yi Ti.”

Steve had been told and heard whispers of the near mythical quality of Valyrian steel, of how the techniques to make more weapons like that of Taryl’s Heartsbane had been lost. “Sounds like a story.”

“It is,” Keladry said. “I would beg my parents to tell it to me at bedtimes.” She let out a sigh. “But I cannot boast of my family while I still hide my survival from them.”

“One day,” Steve said.

Keladry opened her mouth to respond, but closed it after a moment, conflicted.

“What was it like, fighting against a blade like that?” Steve asked.

“I dreamed of crossing blades with Valyrian steel, but never thought it would happen,” Keladry said. “He was faster with it than he had any right to be, and on one of his strikes I swear I heard the air shiver.”

“They’re valuable, then?” Steve asked.

“Treasured far beyond their usefulness,” Keladry said. “Houses steeped in poverty will refuse to give them up, and their histories are retold with pride.”

“Huh,” Steve said, thinking.

She put her whetstone to the side, turning to face him. “Why do you ask?”

Steve told her.

The time for talk was over. Both men had dismounted, and room had been made for the duel. The Reach lords had arranged themselves not behind their leader, but to one side, providing a clearer view to the soldiers watching nearby, and Robin had done similar. The wind rustled over what grass had not been trampled flat by marching boots, and the spectators hushed.

Peake had still not let go of his sword hilt, holding tight to it as if for reassurance. Even when he took it in his main hand, he did not release it for a moment when switching over. His expression was committed, lips pressed together in focus, and he lowered his visor with a twitch of his head. He began to circle to his left.

Steve made no motion to circle in turn, standing his ground. His head tracked the man as he moved, and he wavered, but only for a moment. Soon he would be within grabbing range, but still his hammer remained on his back; he would not need it.

A bootheel scraped across dirt as Peake lunged, a heartbeat before he entered casual striking distance. His sword ripped free from its hilt - literally, sweeping through the material to strike without needing to be drawn, aiming for his wrist.

A shield interposed itself, and there was a screech as Valyrian steel bit deeply into it. Peake made to pull his weapon free before it could be twisted from his hands, but Steve didn’t even try. Over his shield came a clenched fist, and he punched Peake square in the chest without caring to moderate his strength, sending him flying. Clods of dirt were kicked up by his passage as he tumbled, and he came to a stop on his back, scarcely moving.

Steve inspected his shield, taking in the inch long gouge into its edge. There would be no repairing it; much better just to replace the iron covering entirely rather than try. A groan caught his ear, and he looked over to Peake. The man was starting to shift, groaning, one hand coming up to flutter weakly at the dent in his breastplate.

The observers were quiet as Steve advanced the dozen or so footsteps to his fallen foe. Peake could only watch him coming, his visor having half ridden up in his flight, but for all he tried he could not do more than stir feebly. Despite it all, he still held firm to his sword, and he tried to draw it up as Steve stopped at his feet.

“You know,” Steve started slowly, “I don’t quite like how I’ve treated you these past few days.” His tone was easy, and low enough that even those closest would have to come nearer to hear clearly. He leaned in, his voice taking on a harsher bent. “But I don’t like rapists even more.”

Peake’s voice was reedy, thin, and he struggled to draw breath. “Didn’t, I never-”

“You can tell yourself any excuse you want, about how they don’t say no, or they were asking for it, or it was owed to you,” Steve said, “but you’ve never had to lay there, powerless, as someone stronger than you took what they wanted.” He frowned as he took in the man before him. “Not until now.”

He stepped forward, and Peake managed to find one last reserve of strength fuelled by fear, almost flailing his sword at the man who had turned what should have been a triumph of his House into a nightmare. The strike was batted away contemptuously by Steve’s shield, and a pure note rang through the air as Valyrian steel met vibranium. He stood on Peake’s wrist, twisting his sabaton, and the man’s grasp spasmed open. The sword came loose, and Steve took it up.

“No!” Peake cried, a mortal fear put in him by that simple act more than anything else. “Do not! Not that!”

Steve broke off from inspecting the rippling grey pattern of the sword, intrigued despite himself, and glanced at Peake. “Not a good feeling, is it. Think about this next time you decide to take what isn’t freely given.”

“Stop him!” Peake bellowed, somehow forcing himself up on one elbow, but the core of fear within it was unmistakable. “A king’s ransom for the man who stops him!”

Not a man shifted as if to try, not even those in the front ranks of the Reach army. Steve wasted no more time on him, showing him his back as he made his way back to Robin and his mount. The kid wasn’t even trying to hide his savage grin.

“These men deserved a better man to lead them,” Steve called over his shoulder, one final parting shot loud enough for all the lords to hear. He heard the clatter of Peake’s helm as he sagged back to the ground, strength finally failing him. Careful with his new sword, Steve settled onto Fury. He offered one final nod to the still silent lords watching him, and then they were away, riding easily back towards the river.

Nat would have tanned his hide for leaving Peake alive, aghast at the idea of leaving a powerful lord to nurse such a grudge, and maybe she would have been right to do so. But killing the man while he was defenceless on the ground wasn’t in him, never would be, and he had never lived in fear of what evil men might do. If Peake ever recovered enough to take another swing at him, he would deal with it, but for now, he had the larger war to consider.

There were no cheers as they rode back across the bridge, but that was only because any possible cry would have been drowned out by the clash and clamour of steel on steel, a horrific cacophony as what seemed like every man in the army clashed their weapons against their shields. Not a man in the ranks had ever so much as met Peake, but they knew Lord America’s reputation, they knew he had reason to despise the man, and that was enough. In that moment they celebrated his victory, a celebration that somehow rose even higher as they began to glimpse the distinctive grey ripple of Valyrian steel held in his fist.

The knights on the bridge again served as an honour guard, and they cantered past them, riding for another welcoming party that awaited them. It was headed by a man much more agreeable than the last, and Robert beamed as they came to a stop before him, his own horse stamping one hoof.

“Dealt with the pissant rapist, then?” he asked, voice more than loud enough to be heard by all nearby. There were more than a few wide eyes as many suddenly discovered the reason for Steve’s distaste for the enemy leader.

“I hope he has a good maester, for his sake,” Steve said. “He won’t be doing much of anything for a good while, either way.”

Robert barked a laugh, and he wasn’t the only one. “I bet that won’t be the bit that hurts the most,” he said, gesturing to the sword Steve held across his lap.

A look of satisfaction cross Steve’s face. The sword itself didn’t hold all that much value to him - he was more interested in the lesson that losing it would teach Peake, and in the half considered plans he had for it. But that was for later. There was a familiar face lurking in the back of the small crowd of nobles, and a sudden smirk took him.

“Walt!” he called, bestowing the group’s attention on the man. “Come here, would you?”

Under the weight of expectation, Walt skirted around the group, coming to a stop before and beside Steve. “Yes, milord?” he said, mustering up the kind of deference he knew was required in such exalted company.

“Hold onto this for me, would you?” Steve asked, handing the priceless weapon over to the grizzled smallfolk soldier.

With his back to the nobles, Walt was able to glare daggers at Steve without consequence. He received Steve’s best ‘I am the cherubic heart and soul of America, and I would never tell a lie!’ smile in return, and he visibly held his tongue.

“I know you’ll take care of it,” Steve said.

“...yes, milord,” Walt said. “Right away, milord.” He turned his horse around, removing himself from the centre of attention, though of course many eyes followed the sword he now held.

Perhaps it was Walt’s tone, or perhaps Robert was just well attuned to that particular brand of shithousery, but the big lord’s mouth was twitching as he fought back a smirk of his own.

“Come, Steve!” Robert cried. “That sorry lot won’t be attacking today, and you owe us a story!”

Steve bowed his head and obliged, falling in beside Robert as he turned his horse, leading the group towards a pavilion that had been erected a short distance away. It seemed his confidence in him had never wavered.

Robin followed, his grin undimmed. He had known for a long time now, but his knight master continued to prove it again and again: joining Steve was the best decision he would ever make in his life. He couldn’t wait to carry the tale back to his family.

X x X

Come the ninth day at Mastford Bridge, Steve was taking a break from his heroics on the bridge. Not that there were any to do - the Reach army had scarcely done more than muster to stand in ranks, making no motion to suggest that they would do more than stand ready for an incursion from the north bank. That was not to say he was indulging in idleness, however.

Repeated scouting had discovered a point upriver that was not so deep that a mounted force could not cross it. It was masked by a thick copse of woods and hemmed by deep pools to the east and west, leading prior scouting to discount it as a danger by both sides. With some preparation, such a force could make use of it, and set about causing mischief on the other side. It was that reason that saw Steve some few hours upriver with an axe in hand, cutting a narrow path through the trees so that the river could be reached without pain.

He was not alone, indeed he had been inundated with volunteers from his company seeking to escape Walt’s foul mood at being saddled with Steve’s generosity, though he only took a handful. By the time noon had passed, their side of the river had seen their task complete, and Toby was exploring the water astride Quicksilver, the red sand steed enjoying the swim as they checked the passage.

“They’ll manage I reckon,” Toby said when he reported back, water streaming from his legs from the thigh down. “So long as I’m there to lead ‘em, that is.”

Steve gave him a look.

Toby broke. “Aww come on, I been going to all my lessons, even wearing my shoes!”

“What do you think Keladry would say if you asked him?” Steve said. He ignored the sniggers coming from his men, Willem in particular finding it a great show.

Grumbling answered him, the boy knowing very well what Keladry would say to his request to join them on a raid across the river. “Fine. I spose they’ll manage without me.”

“What about the banks?” Steve asked. They weren’t as steep as in some other places, but one could still make a good jump from them with a running start.

“S’fine,” Toby said. “Won’t take them at a gallop but so long as there’s no one chasing you there’s nothin’ to worry about.”

“Well done,” Steve said. “Now I want you to head back to camp-”

Toby groaned.

“-and tell Keladry that I want three squads prepared for a late excursion.”

Toby brightened. “You gonna steal some more horses?”

“Maybe,” Steve said. “We’ll see what we stumble across.” He spoke as much to Toby as he did his small group of troops nearby.

“Got it,” Toby said, and without any further discussion he was gone, Quicksilver rapidly shrinking into the distance.

Steve shook his head at the kid. He was growing quickly, and could put on the right airs when they were needed, but something told him he would always be that same feral horse child at heart. “Come on,” he said to the others. “We’ve got a path to cut without making it obvious.”

Over the next hour, a path was carefully hewed through the trees on the other side of the river, care taken to leave the outer edges as unchanged as possible. More outriders, but not Steve’s own men, joined them as they finished their task, sent to take up a watch on the newly made crossing. Those who made it returned to camp to enjoy an early meal, but they were not done for the day.

The setting of the sun marked Steve’s return, and he brought with him the squads of Yorick, Osric, and Erik. They crossed the river with little trouble, slipping into enemy territory with the ease of familiarity.

Steve led them southeast rather than south, not interested in drawing near to the Reach camp. They would have their scouts out, but not this far to their east, and he was searching for a different prey. By the time dusk had passed and the moon was rising, he had found it. In the distance, the glimmer of a campfire could be seen, poorly hidden. Keen eyes pierced the darkness, making out the outline of circled wagons, a pair of sentries perched atop them keeping watch.

Against men trained by Captain America creeping through fields of long grass, they were not nearly watchful enough, and half a dozen supply wagons found themselves introduced to the joys of barefoot travel as their goods were seized and their pack animals set loose. Wagons were broken down, no good for anything but kindling, and left to litter the field. As quickly as they came, the raiders melted away, taking what supplies they could and destroying or scattering the rest for birds and beasts to pick at.

There was no way to tell for sure, but hoary old Erik was willing to swear that the path the wagons were following had seen little or no traffic in the days prior - the caravan they took that night was perhaps the first of many called to the Reach army when they became aware that their path would be stopped at the Mander for some time. If it was, then their supplies were likely no better than the Stormlands’ own.

To Steve, that opened…possibilities. He spent the ride back to the river crossing deep in thought, planning. With the foe’s current instability, perhaps there was an opportunity to be seized.

X

On the tenth day at the Mander, before the sun had even risen, there was a meeting.

“No chance they’ve managed to get to the Reachmen with a warning?” Robert asked from the head of the table. He was staring down at a makeshift map, unblinking. Candlelight filled the tent.

“Not even if they found a mule and managed to mount it,” Steve confirmed, seated to his left.

At Steve’s left, Beron was staring at the map with similar fixation. “If they haven’t been resupplied, and we continue to intercept them…”

“We would have to take most of them, and they would soon be wise to us,” Samuel said, at Robert’s right. “Not to mention we would need to claim more than we destroy, to maintain our own reserves. A tricky path to walk.”

Most of the lords were gathered, all of them focused on the opportunity before them, racking their brains to be the one who would offer the stratagem to solve their problems.

Robert was shaking his head. “No. Think bigger,” he said.

“A raid on their supplies directly?” a lord said, doubtful but trying to be positive. “They would see us crossing and block our way.”

“They would,” Robert said, sounding satisfied, and all tried to follow the line of thought that had made him so.

Steve was the first to realise. “You want them to meet you, to strip their camp of defenders,” he said. “Then hit them with men we sneak across upriver.”

“Aye,” Robert said. “A dangerous, tricky task, even if they don’t know we can do it. They won’t strip the camp entirely, and if they guard anything it’ll be their supplies, but if we can get amongst them…”

“We wouldn’t have to win the battle, even,” Thomas said from down near the other end of the table. He may have been a bastard, but from what Steve had heard his showing on the bridge had earned him some renown. “Or the fight at the camp. We’d just have to pin their men, and get past them at the camp.”

“We have six days of supplies left if we stay here, eight if we ration,” Samuel said, nodding slowly. “We need to march north, and this could do it.”

Robert accepted the counsel of his most senior lord, and then he glanced to Steve.

“As much as I’d like to join the raid,” Steve said, “if they don’t know where I am, they might get nervous.” Chuckles and the odd guffaw answered him. “I’ll stand in the front rank.” It was true that they needed to move on, and their gambit with Peake had reached its inevitable end. Now was the time to take advantage of it.

“Can we do this today?” Robert asked, already turning back to Samuel.

The old lord chewed it over, weighing the dozens of factors that would influence such a thing. “If we can’t, we will know early enough not to betray our plans.”

“Good enough,” Robert grunted. He looked to his lords. “You all know what to do. Get your men moving. We need to send our cavalry upstream and over the river now if we want them to be in position in time.”

Vigour and joy filled the tent, as lords were tantalised with the chance to do more than watch as their footmen held a river bank. With luck, that day would mark the end of the Battle of Mastford Bridge.

X

Hours later, Steve stood in the middle of battle, a formidable hard point in the front rank of the Stormland centre. The only problem was it was more the middle of a hurricane rather than the middle of a tornado, as the Reach had outright refused to assault his section of the line. He itched with the urge to split his block to hit the sides of the men surging against the line on either side of them, but attempting such a thing untrained in the middle of battle was begging for it to go poorly, and the Reachmen were wary of such a thing, men ready to take advantage of the opening. It was frustrating, even as he knew it aided their objectives.

Then, there came the sounding of trumpets, distant and urgent. A short time later, the first hints of smoke rose from the direction of the Reach camp.

Now came the most dangerous part of the plan. Stormland cavalry manoeuvred for position, a visible threat to any Reach cavalry that might think to ride back to aid their camp. It was a delicate balance - to let them go would be to doom those assaulting the camp, but to drag them into a fight would be to commit to the battle, something that would not serve them at all, not extended deep within enemy territory far from any hint of safe haven. As Robert had said, it was a dangerous, tricky task on all sides, and had the Reach been fighting under a single leader, it would have been even more fraught than it was - but by the sluggish response as they crossed the Mander that morning, they were not, and things were going well enough that many began to hope.

Until they weren’t. There was a shift in the army for those with the sense for it, and horn calls grew more urgent, a lance of Stormland cavalry riding hard away from the river, but they were matched by the same in Reachmen. A block of the Reach reserve was moving to plant themselves in the way of any attempt for the right wing cavalry to sweep after any departing Reach knights, and the men were already starting to turn their mounts to take advantage. If something was not done, those raiding the camp would be forced to make a fighting retreat all the way back to the slow and narrow river crossing upstream.

Something that the Reach had failed to consider, however, was that if Steve was not engaged, then he was free to engage whomever he wanted.

“Ren, pass me my banner,” Steve said, “and hold here a moment.”

Grudgingly, his banner was handed over, and even more grudgingly, those of his troops who had joined him in the ranks that day allowed him to leave them behind as he walked forward, away from the security of his allies and alone into the open space behind the Reach ranks. Then, he turned for the Reach blocking formation, and began to advance on them.

A single man, no matter his reputation or martial skill, could not fight an army. The men of the Reach knew that Lord America was still just a mortal man, not the Warrior reborn. They should have ignored him, and continued moving into position to block the Stormland cavalry.

And yet.

Days of fighting, of carnage and sheer butchery, had ensured that the tales of Lord America’s feats had spread through the army. Those fortunate to survive their assault on the bridge were keenly aware of how close they had come to death, and they spread their tales heedlessly. All knew how powerfully he could swing his hammer, how little even the most cunning of blows meant against his speed, how many he had killed personally upon the bridge. Even despite all this, he was still just a man, and they should have ignored him.

But then the order had come to ignore his section of the line that morning, and the white star banner had become something more, even if only for a day, even if only for that place. Lord America advanced on a block of two hundred men alone, bearing his shield and his banner, and the block of two hundred flinched.

Steve planted himself where the Reachmen had sought to put themselves, keeping the way clear for the Stormland lance, and suddenly a ploy that might have seen the strategic advantage tip to the Reachmen faltered.

The smoke in the distance grew darker, becoming a pillar, and it was clear that the raiders had achieved their objective. Perhaps the Reach supplies were not destroyed in full, but they did not need them all, only enough.

The Reachmen found their courage, and they began to advance, even if it was too late. Steve held his ground, showing no fear, waiting for them to come to him, as if to make his job of killing them all the simpler, and their approach slowed. It was only when they were almost upon him that he simply turned and left, returning to his position in the front ranks.

Something about the gambit struck home. Those engaged in the battle had not seen it, but there were many who had, and something was taken from them in the seeing. The fight was leaving them.

With the path blocked, the lance of Reach cavalry was able to depart, but it would be too little, too late, even as more and more lances managed or were permitted to slip away. The battle continued, men fighting and dying in pursuit of a victory that had already been decided. The noon sun hung high overhead.

Were the Reachmen led by a single lord, one that they trusted, perhaps they could have rallied, pushed to latch onto the Stormlanders and seize a victory in the field that would have made the loss of their supplies inconsequential. But they didn’t, and they didn’t. Led by a council of lords who could seemingly only agree unanimously on one thing, they lacked the vital ingredient to keep fighting, and the Stormland army was allowed to retreat in good order, formation by formation crossing back over the river, the last crossing the bridge and safeguarded by Lord America.

With the destruction of their supplies, the Reach army once under Lord Peake could no longer remain a coherent force in the field, and they would be forced to split to avoid starvation. The Battle of Mastford Bridge was over, and the eyes of the Stormlanders turned north.