A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

The water was cold, but Steve had felt colder. He swam through the choppy waters of the bay with ease, smooth strokes carrying him along. The moon hid its face behind the clouds overheard, and he navigated by the lights of the docks he could see some distance away, flickering torches beckoning him onwards.

It was not the longest swim he had undertaken, starting at a small beach far enough from the city that there was no fear of being seen by any eagle-eyed guard, even in conditions better than they had. It had taken him some twenty minutes to chart an arcing path that would bring him to the docks, avoiding the strong walls and slipping into the city from the sea. The closest he came to discovery was an anchored patrol boat, laying in wait in the darkness, but even that was hundreds of feet away. In time, he slowed his pace, the water calmed by the protections of the harbour as he neared his goal. When he reached the piers, he stopped, treading water, nose just above the waterline as he observed the docks proper and the patrols on them.

The patrols weren’t heavy - just enough to maintain a presence. Dawn was maybe an hour away, and besides the five-man squad, Steve saw one man who looked like a fisherman pass by, coat pulled tight around himself as he went on his way, and another man staggering along, away from the one building on the waterfront that had any activity about it. As he watched, the door to what must be a tavern opened, spilling warm light over the cobblestones, and another man swerved and swayed his way out into the night. The sound of merrymaking briefly drifted over the water, but then the door closed, cutting it off.

The patrol passed out of sight, and Steve saw his chance. He pulled himself up one of the pylons, quiet as he could, holding himself in the shadow of the deck above while he waited for the bulk of the water to drain from him. When he was somewhat less soaked, and sure that he wouldn’t be observed, he rose up onto the pier itself and ambled off it like he had every reason to be there.

There was a dagger strapped to his hip, and he could feel the cold touch of its steel on his skin, where it was hidden by the rough clothes he wore. He should look like just another sailor, caught in the city at the wrong time. All he had to do was make it clear across town to the main gate, make his way inside the gatehouse, and find the mechanism to open it.

Easy. Comparatively, at least.

As much as he was tempted to make his way straight to the city gate, the sight of a soaking wet giant with no shoes might inspire curiosity. He made for the tavern instead, intent on acquiring something that would help him blend in better. He slipped inside just as the patrol rounded the corner down the way once more.

A well banked fireplace, mostly glowing coals, provided warmth to the room, easing the goosebumps that had crawled up his arms. At this hour, only the most dedicated were still drinking, and none looked up at his entrance, most preoccupied with the task of keeping their heads up off their tables, or arguing with their fellows. Behind the bar itself, an old man more beard than face glanced his way, then went back to cleaning tankards with a rag. He took in the room at a glance, judging what he could gain from each, and made his decision.

Like he had every right to do so, Steve ambled over to one of the tables and took a seat. He did not join the few men nodding off into their drinks, or the table arguing about something to do with Ibb, but the two hard looking men in the corner, oiled canvas cloaks over the back of their chairs. They were sat on the opposite side to the fireplace, and were cast in the shadows of the room. The looks they greeted him with were not friendly, to say the least, and there was a dagger sticking out of the table before one of them, a man missing an eye. He began to tap at its hilt with one finger, not breaking eye contact with Steve.

Slowly, deliberately, Steve put one hand on the table, fingers splayed out. With the other, he retrieved his own dagger, and sank it into the table between his thumb and forefinger with a thunk.

A yellow-toothed grin spread across the face of the one-eyed man, matched by his younger companion. Gouged out chips on the table before both spoke of previous rounds played, as did the roughly bandaged finger of the younger man, blood seeping through it.

As the challenger, Steve went first. Without breaking the stare down, he began to stab a pattern between his fingers, hitting each gap to an unheard beat. After going from thumb to pinky and back twice he stopped, waiting on his foe.

The weathered sailor didn’t hesitate, taking up his knife and matching Steve’s feat, still not looking away from him.

“Make it a mite harder, this time,” he said, scratchy voice goading, still grinning.

“Careful what you wish for,” Steve said.

This time, he stepped it up a little, making every second stab between thumb and forefinger one further gap away, and then tracing his way back the same. His speed picked up, but it was still child’s play for him. He lifted his chin in challenge when he finished.

The younger of the two made an impressed noise, and the other made a face, finally breaking eye contact. His brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked Steve’s pattern, knife a blur. Several times he came close to slicing his fingers, but he managed it, letting out a breath after the final strike.

“You’re not half bad,” the sailor admitted grudgingly.

“Only half?” Steve said. He closed his eyes and raised his knife.

“Oh, fuck off,” the sailor said.

Steve ignored him, repeating the one-two-one-three-one-four pattern, and then doing it in reverse from left to right for good measure. Once he was done, he opened his eyes and leaned back in his chair, leaving the knife quivering in the table. He crossed his arms, expectant.

The sailor raised his knife and closed his eye, but then he paused. He let out a huff and stabbed his knife into the table, well away from his hand. “I weren’t raised no fool,” he said, shaking his head.

His companion snorted, clearly disagreeing, and received an elbow for his troubles. The elder raised his tankard to the barman to get his attention, and held up three scarred fingers. In short order, three ales were delivered to the table, and they shared the first draught together.

“You’d make a killing on Pyke, hands like that,” the man said. “What brings you here, stranger?”

“Bad luck to dock before the bay was closed,” Steve said. He nursed his ale, pretending to drink.

The younger sailor made a noise of disgust, while the other nodded.

“Aye,” he said, “this was meant to be an overnight stop. Three days later…”

“Any trouble with the guards?” Steve asked. He tried to ignore how his clothes were dripping and pooling in his seat.

“Just the usual,” the sailor said. “So long as you’re not too innerested in the walls, they’re more toey about the army outside.” He gave Steve a look over. “You dock, or fall overboard?”

Steve pulled a face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

They both laughed at his apparent misfortune.

“Old Ost over there keeps a chest of things drunks leave behind,” the man said, nodding at the barkeep.

“Thanks,” Steve said, taking another pull of his drink and deliberately sloshing some on himself. “Say, you hear that tale out of Braavos about the leviathan…”

They spoke a short while longer, Steve mindful of the timer he was on, and he made his excuses to the two sailors, before approaching ‘Old Ost’ about the lost and found. A polite word soon saw him pulling a ragged fisherman’s coat around himself. It had seen better days, and stank of stale ale, but it would serve his purposes. He departed the tavern, headed back out into the darkness of the morning, just another man trying to get home after a night out drinking.

He had walked these streets before, but that was in the light of day, and with locals around to ask for directions. Now, he stuck to the main thoroughfare, passing by homes and stores as he made his way across the city. Most patrols he passed barely gave him a second look, but their attention seemed to linger on him more and more as he left the waterside behind, though one he passed by within arm’s reach gave him a clear berth, noses screwed up at the stink of ale following him like a cloud.

He was perhaps a stone’s throw (for him) away from the walls when he felt unfriendly eyes upon him. Ahead, at one corner of an intersection, there were five guards gathered around a brazier, doing their best to get warm. They were watching him silently as he drew near, what chainmail could be seen under their red, black, and yellow tabards glinting as the moon peaked out from behind a cloud.

A clever approach was needed. Steve staggered up to them, joining their circle around the brazier without so much as a by-your-leave, and held his hands out to its warmth. He slurred something that might have been a hello, and belched loudly.

Whatever suspicions the guards had held, they were dismissed by his actions, those closest leaning away from him.

“Can’t believe this,” one of them said, complaining. “Half the Vale out there and he’s off his head.”

“On your way you drunk,” another said, leaning on his spear.

“Jus’ wanna get warm,” Steve said, hunching inwards.

“On your way or you can get warm in a cell,” the guard said, giving him a push.

Steve allowed it to send him staggering away, almost off his feet, but he recovered, swaying. He muttered to himself as he left them behind, the patrol already putting him from their minds as they waited out the end of their shift. By the time he rounded the corner, they had forgotten him completely.

There were no more guards between him and the walls and he reached them without further incident, though he could hear the occasional conversation atop them. He made his way down the shadowed lane in its lee, trailing his left hand along it as he made for the gate. There were no torches, only the glow of the occasional brazier on the wall, and he stepped quietly, just another shadow in the night.

He reached the gates at last, observing what waited for him from the darkness. From his position to the side, he could just make out two men under its arch, taking shelter in the recess, and he listened.

“...is bullshit,” one man was saying.

“Post is a post. At least down here we won’t be first in line for a dawn attack.”

“Why are we even here?” the first man said. “Takes five men to unbar the gates, and even then the grate is still down.”

“You want to tell the lords how to defend the walls? And it’s called a portcullis.”

“I could be balls deep in my wife, but instead I’m here with you.”

“I’ve seen your wife, you’re better off.”

“Your wife then.”

“Takes more than a short sword to satisfy my wife.”

Their banter continued, and Steve turned his attention to other things. The gate was part of a larger structure built into the wall, what must be the gatehouse, and there was a door in the wall between him and the two guards.

He would deal with the gate first, and the portcullis afterwards. The sky began to lighten, heralding dawn’s approach as he waited for the moment to make his move.

“You reckon Lord Grafton will make terms?” the bellyacher asked his fellow.

“Don’t see why he would if he hasn’t yet.”

“Why’s he up on the wall then? If I were him I’d still be in bed, b-”

“-balls deep in your wife, I know. Who knows why nobles do what they do.”

Steve stepped quickly, sidling along the wall. Standing under the arch of the gate as they were, the guards did not see him until it was too late.

“Wha-”

“Oi-”

A backhand and an open slap sent them reeling into the gate and the stone wall, senses addled. He caught their spears as they fell, and then grabbed the two by the ankles. Back into the lane he had approached from, he dragged them out of sight of the main road and down an alley. They were beginning to stir, and he shrugged off the coat he had borrowed from the tavern, tearing it into strips. The two guards found themselves gagged and bound, hogtied in the shadows, out of sight. They tried to struggle, recovering from the slaps, but it was far too late.

“If you are quiet,” Steve said, kneeling beside them, “you’ll survive today to go back to your wives. If you’re loud, I’ll have to kill you. Do you understand?”

The two guards craned their necks as best they could to look up at the enormous blond man who had ambushed them so thoroughly. They only had to think for a moment before they were nodding their heads as best they could.

“Good,” Steve said. “Are you being relieved soon?”

They shook their heads.

“Alright. Don’t go anywhere now,” he said, leaving them bundled up in the alley.

Back to the gate he went, looking around for observers. There were none, and he approached the gate itself, taking in the metal studded and strapped wood. He glanced up at the murder holes above, glad that his presence was going unnoticed, before focusing on the gate bars. There were two of them, thick square bars of wood with straps of metal around them at the middle. Each would take at least five men to lever up and out of their cradles. Steve let out a breath as he pinned his shoulders and lifted them out one at a time, setting them down on the cobblestones against the gatehouse walls.

So far so good. He pulled gently on the gate, and it shifted, but it creaked as it did and he stopped. If he was quick and lucky, there would be no one to notice the bars had been removed. All that blocked entrance to the city now was the portcullis.

Padding back to the door in the walls, he tested it and found it locked. It was made of wood, and banded with metal. Not easily forced.

Well, he was raised to be polite. He knocked three times, and waited. There were voices on the other side, and a brief argument, before he heard someone approaching the door. He still held the two spears in one hand. The door opened, revealing a scowling man with a face of red stubble.

“You’ve still got half an hour out ther- wait, who’re you?”

Steve punched the ginger in the face and followed up with a kick to the chest, sending him flying. He stepped through the door and took in the room at a glance.

It was a break room, or whatever the equivalent was, a round table in the middle and a game of cards laid out upon it, now interrupted. Those playing had been seated, but they had jumped to their feet when their comrade had been launched into the table. Between the players and the few others sitting by the walls, eating and resting, there were a dozen or so guards. The only other exit to the room was a ladder leading upwards, a closed trapdoor at its top.

The soldier pulled the door closed behind himself with a clang, and it rang around the room with finality. The guards looked between their groaning friend and him, incredulous.

“Well?” Steve said. “I don’t have all day.”

The two closest men rushed him, one with a dagger raised, the other unarmed. Steve brought his leg up to kick the armed man in the chest, booting him into the table to land on the ginger. The weight of a man in full chain and gambeson didn’t help him in his attempts to rise, but that wasn’t Steve’s problem, and he was already ducking out of the way of a wild swing from the other man. He grabbed the offered arm and broke it with a twist, headbutting a third who thought to rush him while he was busy.

An oath of pain rang out, and then the rest tried to dogpile him. Steve dropped one spear and began to lay about them with the other, beating them back with it like a staff, using a move he had learnt from Keladry to catch a man between the legs and lever him from his feet. Another tackled him, trying to drive him back into the door, but he would not be moved, and he seized him by the scruff of his mail and threw him into the wall to the right.

One man took in the scrum and made a different choice, shooting up the ladder. Steve threw the spear, taking him in the stomach and sending him flying. It penetrated his mail, but only slightly, and it was the collision of his head and the stone floor that hurt him more.

He was unarmed now, but so was the next man to attack him, and he met the sloppy punch with a headbutt, breaking the man’s knuckles on his hard head. Bucky would have mocked him about weaponising his stubbornness, but he would leave that part out of his stories.

The initial rush had given the others time to take up their weapons, and Steve stepped out of the way of a sword blow, before swaying to avoid another. He jumped and flipped, breaking the jaw of the first swordsman with a kick, and bringing his elbow down on the head of the second. Both collapsed, and Steve turned to the last of the guards. They swallowed, but there was no thought of surrender in them. Despite their bravery, they joined their fellows on the ground, groaning and in pain.

Steve paused in the aftermath, cocking his head. He could hear no shouts of alarm, no calls to arms. It seemed the thick walls had insulated the ruckus. For now, at least. One man, the second he had kicked into the table, was trying to draw in the breath to shout, and Steve threw a boot he found at him, beaning him in the head.

“Don’t,” he warned, drawing the attention of the more lucid guards. “Think things through, and make the decision that’ll see you and your pals live to see tomorrow.”

The man’s gaze flicked to the guards at Steve’s feet, and he swallowed, gritting his teeth. The look in his eyes told the truth though, and Steve relaxed. He could have killed all these men, but he’d prefer not to, given the choice. They were only defending their home.

Borrowing their armour would take time he didn’t have, to say nothing of sizing issues, so up the ladder he went, taking up a spear in his off hand. The trapdoor at the top wasn’t locked, and he lifted it up slowly, just a crack, so he could peer through it. Another room was revealed to him, an armoury of sorts this time. Racks of bows and spears lined the room, and he could spy a door across the room, one that should lead to an area above the gate. He could see arrow slits in the wall to the left.

Slowly, he opened the way fully, making sure no one had been hiding in his blindspot, and pulled himself up into the room. There was a writing desk there, however, and a mug of something still warm upon it. Another door was beside it, though this one was ajar, and beyond it was an upward sloped path. Distantly, he could hear raised voices. It sounded like they were coming from outside the city.

It was likely the lord, Grafton, being given his final chance to surrender, which meant his time was running out. He closed the trapdoor, sliding a metal bar into a latch that was bolted into the stone floor, and made for the partially open door, following the sloping hall. It was not overly long, and the ceiling cut off halfway down it just as his head would threaten to bump against it, revealing the open sky. Dawn had well and truly broken, and he could see grey clouds lit by orange.

He reached the part where the ceiling stopped, and realised that it was the floor of the walltop. He had taken the path that provided the walls access to the gatehouse. The walls were manned, guards every few feet, but they stared outwards, not over the city. Poking his head up, he looked back towards the gate.

A man in plate armour stood there, leaning against the battlements as he stared down at the field before them, apparently listening to what they said. He had dirty blond hair, and there was a burning tower on his tabard. Behind him were two men similarly in plate. There was no mechanism or anything that looked like it might control the portcullis to be seen.

“Oi, who’re you?”

Steve looked to his left, at the guard who had, for whatever reason, turned to look back at the city and seen him. The guards beside him were turning at the question, and likewise saw him.

“Who am I?” Steve said, bristling. “Who’re you?!”

The guard’s face screwed up in confusion, taken aback. He looked to the men beside him for support.

“I don’t believe this,” Steve said, throwing up his hands. He turned and stormed back down the hall, heading back to the armoury.

The confusion he left in his wake didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough. He heard movement, and a belated command to stop, and he broke into a sprint, closing the door behind himself and dropping the heavy iron bar on it into place, locking it shut. He was halfway across the room when he heard banging on the door, but it was soon drowned out by the call of a horn, loud and clear. That was the signal. He needed to raise the portcullis.

The door he had first seen was still closed, but it was not locked, and it opened for him. Beyond was a bare room, dominated by what had to be the portcullis mechanism. A winch with a heavy rope wound part way around its central drum, there were spokes at each end with which to turn it in order to draw the portcullis up. However, it was not the only thing of interest in the room.

“Lord America,” the knight within said. He had been sitting on a chair before the winch, as if waiting, but now he rose to his feet. He was armed and armoured for war, and his tabard had three black birds carrying red apples, or hearts perhaps, in their claws.

The last notes of the horn began to fade away.

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” Steve said. He closed the door behind himself, another barrier to prevent interruption, and dropped the bar on it into place. There was another door across the room on the other side, likely leading into another armoury, but the knight stood between him and it.

“As I intended,” the man said, pale face almost smirking. Dark hair fell just past his ears.

“You’re in my way,” Steve said, face going flat. “Are you sure that’s where you want to be?”

“Quite sure,” the man said, drawing his sword. “One must risk a little, in order to rise.”

For all his swagger, he couldn’t be much older than Keladry, and Steve would be shocked if he could buy a drink back home. He would beat him down, and then open the gate.

“You’re lucky I am who I am,” Steve told him, bringing his spear up. His rough clothes were still damp, and encrusted with seasalt, a far sight from the plate armour of his foe, gleaming in the light now shining through from the cityside window.

The knight lunged, but Steve turned the strike aside with his spear, just enough so he could turn himself, allowing his blade to pass by and miss by inches. He elbowed him in the ribs, the strike enough to make him cough even through his armour, and then he bent over backwards, avoiding a sweeping strike. He turned the bend into a flip, rapping the knight’s knuckles with his spear shaft as he did so.

The man was disciplined enough not to drop his sword, but it slowed his next strike, and then Steve was inside his guard, headbutting him square in the nose. It broke with a crunch and a spurt of blood, and Steve elbowed him twice in the jaw, dropping him. Threat removed, he hurried to the portcullis winch and began to reel it in, one hand on each crank. It was heavy, but not nearly heavy enough to be a problem.

The problem came instead from the far door, the one not locked. He was only three or four revolutions in when it burst open, guards spilling inwards. They saw what he was doing, and rushed him immediately.

Steve met their charge, ploughing through them like a battering ram. The winch unspooled, lowering the portcullis once more, but it would only be temporary. He tore through the guards, beating a man with such force that his spear snapped, but he caught the broken piece and began to lay about with both, forcing his way closer to the door. More were coming, and his blows became more brutal, breaking limbs with every blow as he fought his way towards the door. Through the door, a man was drawing a bow, and Steve snapped his head to the side, narrowly avoiding the arrow that skimmed over a guard’s shoulder and would have taken him through the eye.

The spear half in his right hand broke again, shattering with the collarbone he hit with it, and he dropped it, spinning to avoid a spear thrust. He caught it with the crook of his elbows and snapped it against his back, turning again to kick a man’s head near off his shoulders with a roundhouse. He was at the door now, but then came one of the knights he had spied with Grafton atop the wall, naked steel in hand.

The sword was turned aside with a slap to the flat of the blade, and then Steve punched him right in the chest. He held little back, and the plate armour was left dented, the knight or lord sent flying back into the armoury with a choked gasp of pain. He slammed the door closed, but then he was slammed into it himself as one of the guards he had knocked over tackled him from behind. He turned in the clinch, bringing his elbow down into the man’s back, aiming for his kidneys. The man dropped and curled up in pain after two blows, and he pushed the door closed again, but someone had forced their hand through the gap.

Their desperate effort was punished as Steve opened the door again only to slam it, once, twice, thrice, and whoever the hand belonged to howled in pain. He opened the door to do it again, but the hand was snatched back, and he rammed the locking bar down into place.

He could hear the twang and whistle of loosed arrows, swarms of them, and he rushed back to the winch. One of the fallen guards tried to rise up to stop him, broken arm clutched to their chest, but they only earned a knee to the jaw for their troubles, and then he was at the crank again, turning it as quickly as he could.

There was no convenient window for him to look through, no arrow slits in the walls, but he heard the roar of victory all the same, as the mass of men outside saw the portcullis begin to rise once more. Before the metal grate was raised entirely, he heard the gates yawn open, and could see countless figures rush by underneath through the murderholes in the floor. There was a thud of metal on stone, and the grate would raise no further. He locked it into place with a loop around the crank arm. That was it. The job was done.

Steve let out a great sigh, feeling the rush of combat beginning to subside. He stepped away from the mechanism and almost stumbled on the carpet of broken bodies he had made, their pained moans and cries filling the room now that he wasn’t focused on his task. Some watched him with fear in their eyes, but others were unconscious or unable to think past the pain. His job was done, but the taking of Gulltown was not yet over.

Still, his part in it was. Grafton would not likely have lingered long on the walls, and he wasn’t about to leave the gatehouse after he went to the effort of securing it, not without someone to hand it over to. He ran his gaze over those he had defeated, grimacing at some of the injuries. It would be a long time before they saw any sort of aid, let alone a maester. There was plenty for him to do right here.

One man was trying to get out from under another unconscious guard, and Steve lifted the man off him gently, setting him on his side in the recovery position.

“Careful with that arm,” Steve told him, reaching out to help him, even as he was watched by wary eyes. He began to tear strips off the tabard he wore, fashioning a sling. “This will do until you can be seen to properly.”

The wariness remained, but fear faded, others in the room watching him as he helped the hurts he had caused bare minutes ago. Tabards were torn up for bandages and slings, spears were broken for splints, and dislocated limbs were popped back into place. As he worked, horn blasts rang out intermittently, sounding and receiving, but he hadn’t been read into the system, and couldn’t tell what they meant. The sounds of combat had already begun to fade, even the bowshots from the wall. He was examining the nose and jaw of the first knight he had defeated when there was a knock on the door he had fought to close.

With a squelch, he used his thumbs to reposition the broken nose, making it somewhat straight once more. He rose to his feet, approaching the door and opening it a crack. He wasn’t about to risk getting punched in the face.

Brandon was on the other side, sweat soaked and grinning, a streak of blood across his cheek. “Steve,” he said. “Knew you could do it.”

Opening the door fully, Steve glanced around the armoury he hadn’t entered through. A man in Arryn colours was helping the knight he had punched in the chest. It seemed the fighting was over. “Brandon. Good to see you alive.”

“It was hardly a battle, not with your efforts,” Brandon said with a scoff. He looked over Steve’s shoulder, brows rising. “I’d almost say this was the worst of the fighting. Had me worried when the portcullis fell again.”

“I was interrupted,” Steve said dryly, gesturing. The Arryn man helping the knight wasn’t the only one who had come with Brandon, and the other few were watching and listening, eyes slightly wide. “How did the rest of it go?”

“Well. Very well,” Brandon said. “The city is ours, and casualties on both sides were lighter than we hoped.”

“Not absent though,” Steve said.

“No, never absent,” Brandon agreed.

“These men will need help getting to the healer,” Steve said. “Do you have some men to spare to help them?”

“If I don’t, I’ll get them,” Brandon said. “Elbert and I are seeing to this while Father and Lord Jon accept Grafton’s surrender. We caught him halfway to his keep.”

More men were called for, and it was clear as Steve watched that there was no difference between the two sides. Two of the men even recognised each other as one helped the other to his feet, babying the ribs that Steve had broken. He was glad he had restrained himself, even as he knew that it would prove the exception and not the rule in the coming war.

“What will you do now?” Brandon asked as they watched the last of the men be taken away. The knight, identified by Brandon as no knight at all but as Squire Lyn Corbray, had awakened but was still in a daze, likely concussed, and was being guided by the shoulder.

“Could you have a message sent to Naerys, tell her I’m fine?” Steve asked. “I’m going to go and help the healers.” He wasn’t one to leave a job half done.

“She had yet to wake when the battle began, but I’ll task a servant,” Brandon said. More men began to arrive, climbing up from below and setting to work helping.

“I did keep her awake all night,” Steve said. She was probably catching up on sleep after ensuring he’d wake up at the right time.

“Catelyn was right then,” Brandon said, greatly amused.

Steve froze, realising how his words might have sounded. Some of the men nearby tried to hide grins, others didn’t bother, yet more were shaking their heads in admiration, not even pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Not like that,” Steve said.

“I’m sure,” Brandon said.

“She stayed up so she could wake me at the right hour,” Steve said. “We only started da- courting after I returned from King’s Landing.”

“I’ll bet your waking was most pleasant,” Brandon said, goading him on.

“Keep that up and I won’t give you any of the dirt I have on Ned,” Steve warned him.

“What has Ned done?” Elbert asked, stepping through the door from the armoury. There was a knight at his back, hand on their sword as they eyed the room at large.

“Something he’d give a lot to keep from his older brother,” Steve said. “But suddenly I’m not sure I’m all that keen on sharing.”

Brandon raised his hands, saying no more, though his amused expression spoke volumes.

“We’re housing the wounded in a warehouse closer to the docks,” Elbert told him, not so subtly elbowing Brandon with a clang. “Likely best to get the men there before all else. Ser Steve?”

“I’ll be helping the maesters,” Steve said.

Elbert grimaced. “No maesters, as yet,” he said. “Just whatever barbers and sawbones Grafton had readied.”

“Best we move quick then,” Steve said. “There’s some more men down in the break room below the other armoury who could use some help.”

“I’ll send some men,” Elbert said. He gave some directions to a nearby soldier, and it was so.

It did not take long to clear the upper gatehouse of the injured, many limping. Some could climb down the ladder to ground level, but others needed to be taken along the wall first to the nearest staircases, unable to handle the ladder after what Steve had done to them. When they emerged outside once more, the sun had well and truly risen. The street to the gate looked different in the light of day, and the events of the infiltration felt like much longer ago.

“Oh, there’s two men tied up in an alley down that lane,” Steve said, gesturing down the wall. “Someone should probably make sure they’re not left to sit there.”

One of the soldiers around them was quick to comply, another following in his wake with barely a glance at their lord. Elbert and Brandon exchanged a look, more exasperated than anything, but said nothing.

There was a heavy presence of Vale forces in the streets of Gulltown, but there was no smoke, no looting, not so much as a smashed in door. It seemed that with the main gate taken so unexpectedly, and the flood of soldiers into the city, there had simply been no time for protracted fighting. Here and there Steve could see splashes of blood on the cobblestone streets, but only a few looked to be fatal amounts to his eye, and there were no bodies to be seen. Brandon and Elbert led the way down the main street, wounded and their escorts following behind, and it seemed likely that their intent was as much to be seen bringing the defenders to medical aid as it was to do it.

“Quick cleanup,” Steve remarked, as the procession made its way through the city.

“My lord uncle tasked the second wave with it once it was clear victory was already ours,” Elbert said. “This is not an enemy city, after all, just one with poor leadership.” He spoke to be heard by those around them as much as to answer Steve. Though they were only surrounded by soldiers, the buildings they passed had many eyes peering out of windows, and some cautious heads poking out doors.

Steve waved at a pair of young siblings who were staring down from the roof of their two story building. They hunkered down, but didn’t take their eyes off the procession below. Men in Arryn colours were on every corner, replacements for the patrols Steve had snuck past earlier, but these men seemed more intent on being seen than on cracking down on those they saw.

In time, they reached a row of warehouses, a street or two in from the docks. It was not far from where Steve had made his landing in the dark, but something was off. There was none of the traffic or the scent of blood that he would have expected from a makeshift hospital, unless the fighting had been even milder than he had thought. There was a single man standing guard at the main doors to one warehouse in particular, and Elbert stepped ahead of the group, scowling, his silent bodyguard following.

“Why is the warehouse not in use?” Elbert demanded of the soldier. “Is this not the location for the wounded?”

“Not good enough for that Essosi,” the soldier reported, looking disgruntled. “Made us shift all the beds out under the market tents, out in the square.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the other side of the warehouse.

“If the fighting had flared up…” Brandon said, trailing off with a scowl.

“The open air would be better than that,” Steve allowed, looking over the warehouse. It had no windows, save for small barred slits at the top of its walls here and there.

“Even so,” Elbert said. “He was told-” he sighed, cutting himself off. “Damned Myrmen.”

Some of the wounded had it in themselves to groan at the thought of further walking, but that at least it seemed they didn’t fear for their lives.

“Think of it this way,” Steve told them, “you’ll get a nice sea breeze as someone fusses over you.”

“Can it be a comely maiden with plump teats?” one soldier, a man whose arm Steve had broken in three places, said. His face was tense with pain, but he managed to force a smile.

“It’ll be an old butcher with three teeth left,” Steve told him. “If you’re lucky you’ll get his mother. Don’t ask me about her teats.”

Scattered groans and laughs were his answer, and they continued on, rounding the row of warehouses to emerge into a market square, one end of it opening up to the docks themselves. All around it were canopies, swathes of fabric suspended on tent poles. Usually, they would provide shade for those hawking the catch of the day, but on this day they sheltered the wounded, laid out on stretchers and tables and whatever else could support a man’s weight. There had to be close to one hundred men, with more filtering in.

“Right,” Steve said. He took in the situation at a glance. Someone had triaged, the worst injuries the closest to the water, and there were maybe half a dozen figures moving from bed to bed. “If you walked here under your own power, find somewhere to sit down that end. If you had to carry someone, head towards the water until you see people who look about as injured as your pal…”

Orders flowed out naturally as Steve took command. Brandon and Elbert observed as the mob of wounded and those escorting them began to flow out in an orderly fashion, their strange friend seemingly forgetting they were even there.

“We will see to the city,” Elbert said, catching Steve before he headed into the mess of wounded himself.

“Huh? Oh, right. See afterwards,” Steve said. He was still scanning the market, looking for where he’d do the most good.

“I’ll make sure your lady knows you’re safe,” Brandon said.

“Appreciate it, Brandon,” Steve said.

Their men returned from settling the wounded, following the two nobles as they departed, and Steve set to work.

Someone had arranged for a cauldron of boiling water, a fire lit on the stones beneath it, and Steve slowed only long enough to dip his hands in it, ignoring the scorch of pain as he scrubbed as best he could. He dipped his hands in again, and then there was no time to waste as he ran towards the man that had caught his attention, just brought by two men. He was thrashing around, clutching at his bloodied thigh and moaning in pain. The two soldiers that had carried him in set him on a pair of tables that looked like they had been borrowed from a tavern. It was the bright red blood seeping through his pant leg that had drawn Steve’s attention, however.

“What did this?” Steve asked as he stepped up.

“Spear,” one of the soldiers who had carried him in said. He was wearing Grafton colours.

“How long ago?”

“Ten minutes?” the man said, unsure. “Hey, who’re-”

“Don’t question me, just do as I say,” Steve said brusquely. “Give me your tabard.” He tore the injured man’s pant leg away, revealing the wound. He had seen worse, but it wasn’t good either, and worryingly close to the groin.

“I’m not-”

Steve seized him by the tabard and ripped it from him, making him stumble forward as the fabric tore. He bundled it up and packed it into the wound, pressing firmly around it. “I need clean bandages. Ask someone who isn’t busy, and bring them to me.”

“Yes, Lord America!” the second man, this one in Arryn colours, said, before hurrying off.

The first bit back whatever words were on his tongue, hurrying off in turn.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the man on the table was mumbling, pale with pain.

“Don’t tell me about your evening plans son, just stay still,” Steve said. A man nearby choked out a pained laugh, distracted from his own injury.

The two from before returned, and one handed him a roll of gauze. Steve pulled the bloodied tabard away, revealing the wound, and breathed a sigh of relief. The colour of the blood had dulled, no longer so bright. If the artery had been cut, perhaps it was only a small nick. He cursed the complete lack of tools, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Even the small emergency kit from his suit that had gone through hell would be better than this, but that was outside the city.

He began to wrap the injury, the motions long practised, and he was suddenly thrown back to the early days of the War, when he had shadowed a nurse after one battle or another, determined to make himself useful. When the injury was wrapped, he took the man by the calf and began to lift his leg slowly, trying to position the wound above his heart.

“Your job is to stay with this man and keep his leg up,” Steve said to the Grafton man. “Do your best to keep it above his chest. If the wound starts bleeding heavily, or you see bright red blood, you come and get me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, milord,” came the answer, and the leg was handed off.

“You,” Steve said, turning to the Arryn man. “What’s your name?”

“Daveth, milord,” he said.

“You’re my assistant now. You follow and do what I tell you.”

“Aye,” Daveth said, nodding.

Steve was already moving on, heading for a man clutching at an arm that ended at the wrist. The city was taken, but the work was only just starting.

X

It was midday by the time Steve had a moment to stop and take a moment. His arms had been scrubbed clean, but his clothing would need to be burnt, between the salt and the blood splatters. He looked out over the water as he breathed steadily, purging the stench of blood from his nostrils with the salt air. Seven men had died, and he knew exactly what had needed to be done to save three of them, only he lacked the tools. For the first time, he truly cursed whatever whim of fate had sent him to this world. Tony would have had them churning out arc reactors by now, let alone -

He broke the line of thought, focusing on his breathing. He had opened the city to avoid a long siege. He had avoided a bloody fight over the gates. He had saved lives.

Behind him, the makeshift outdoor hospital was still full, but for now the work was done. Wounds had been bandaged, broken limbs splinted, cuts stitched. Now there was only the ongoing care to worry about, but even the sawbones and barbers he had seen working could change bandages, and curious seagulls watched them as they worked.

Not all of those seeing to the injured had fallen into those categories, however. As Steve had worked, he had glimpsed another man moving much like he did, heading for the worst of things and giving aid to those others had deemed beyond help. He was not young, but nor was he old, somewhere between Naerys and Steve in age, and he wore a thick leather apron, a number of steel tools held within it. He had even had a helper running them to the boiling cauldron between patients to see them hurriedly cleaned. They had only spoken the once, briefly, as Steve had called him to swap patients with him, unable to retrieve a broken dagger tip without doing further damage. The delicate needle pliers the man carried had done the job better than Steve could with his fingers, and the soldier had survived.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the olive skinned man joined Steve by the waterside, flicking water from freshly scrubbed arms.

“I had not thought to find another --------- amongst the Westerosi,” the man said. He was clean shaven, but for the hint of stubble on his lip, and his hair was cut short, almost in a buzzcut.

“I don’t know the term,” Steve said, turning slightly to him.

“The closest word would be maester, but it is not the same,” the man said. He was slim, and lacked the callouses that came from work or training. “My trade is the treatment and healing of the human body, much like a blacksmith might repair a suit of armour.” His accent was one that Steve hadn’t heard before.

“I didn’t think they had doctors here,” Steve said, marking the word. It sounded a little like the Valyrian he had heard in Braavos.

“They don’t,” the man said, waving a hand. Aside from the faint traces of blood on his nails, they were almost manicured. “Most of you Westerosi are far too precious about the study of the human body.”

“I’m not from Westeros,” Steve said. He watched as an albatross soared over the harbour, looking for a perch.

“So you are not,” the man said. “But where are my manners? I am Corivo Marzh, late of Myr.” He offered his hand.

“Steve Rogers, of America,” Steve said. He accepted the hand after only a moment of hesitation at the name of the city.

“Where did you learn the craft?” Corivo asked, brown eyes curious.

“War, mostly,” Steve said.

“Not from a master then,” Corivo said, disappointed.

“I have some formal training, but only the basics,” Steve said. He looked back, taking in the outdoor hospital and remembering what Elbert had said. “It was your idea to move things out of the warehouse?”

“The warehouse, pah,” Corivo said, waving a hand dismissively. He seemed to gesture a lot. “No light, no air, the stench…no, I did not care for the warehouse.”

“You weren’t worried about the fighting?” Steve asked.

“What fighting? The walls were taken, the ruling family victorious,” Corivo said. He frowned. “Although, hmm. I must remember, this is not Essos. The taking of cities is not so civilised here.”

Steve held his tongue on the presumption of civility from a slave owning nation. “What brings you to Gulltown?”

“The tides, mostly,” Corivo said. “I had a gentleman’s disagreement with a man in Pentos and had need to leave quickly.”

“A gentleman’s disagreement,” Steve said, raising a brow. “What kind is that?”

“The kind where his wife finds me more attractive than he,” he said, flashing a smile. “But before that, my master set me to journeying, to gain experience.”

“You’re no stranger to battles then,” Steve said.

“Battles I avoid as much as I can, but the aftermath I am much more familiar with,” Corivo said. “My master and I served with a sellsword company for a time, the Windblown, but he has since retired and sent me on my way.” He did not seem to be too broken up about it.

“So you happened to be in the city and offered your knowledge,” Steve said.

“Just so,” Corivo said. He ran his thumb and forefinger down both sides of his mouth, as if stroking a long moustache. “If I may ask…how did you save the man with the-” he paused, looking for the right words. “-the one drowning on land?”

“The collapsed lung?” Steve said. “Air in his chest cavity?”

“Just so!” Corivo said, snapping his fingers.

“The lung can’t expand properly when air is between the lung and the ribcage,” Steve said. “If you can get the air out and block the hole, the initial danger is over.” He was lucky the wound had been made with a stiletto, or a rondel knife. The wound was quite small, and unpleasant as it had been, he had been able to draw the air out without specialised tools.

“How extraordinary,” Corivo said. “I have lost patients to such a thing before, but my master knew not how to fix it.”

“It was a very mild case of it,” Steve said. “If you’re as desperate as to suck the air out, you’ve probably already lost them.”

“Perhaps, but a tube, perhaps ------...” he broke off into mutters in his own language.

Steve let him go for a moment, listening to the cawing of the gulls. “If it’s experience you’re after, the war is about to take off.”

“The war?” Corivo asked, broken from his muttering. “This is not a tax dispute?”

“No,” Steve said, voice dry. “The king pissed off half the continent.”

“Ah, the drawbacks of displeasing your parents,” Corivo said. “I would have taken another ship had I known.”

“Your parents?” Steve asked.

“Merchants, and well informed for it,” Corivo said, shaking his head. “I will have to see when the harbour opens once more.”

“Thought you’d be interested in a chance to practise your trade,” Steve said.

“Usually, yes,” Corivo said. “But Westerosi wars are…messy. Cities sacked, battles fought to the last - I prefer the way my home practices war.”

“How’s that?” Steve asked.

“Civilly, with the understanding that burning the land serves no one,” Corivo said.

“Can’t say I’d describe a slave trading land as ‘civil’,” Steve said idly.

Corivo gave him a level glance. “I have never owned a slave,” he said, “but I have found that there is cheap life to be found no matter what continent one finds themselves on.”

“I’m not sure I’d say you can assign value to a life at all,” Steve said.

“Hmm,” the doctor said, but did not comment on the topic further. There was a brief pause. “What is your interest in the conflict?” he asked at length.

“I’m fighting in it,” Steve said. He wasn’t inclined to share his life story, and left it at that. He knew better than to tar a people with the same brush, but the idea of entire city states that supported and thrived off slavery was a thought that burrowed into his mind like a tick and refused to rest easy.

“Well, good luck to you,” Corivo said. “I will be looking for a ship to Braavos, or perhaps - ugh - Ibb.” He turned, and began to walk away.

“I’m not sure how much fighting is going on up in Braavos,” Steve said, like he was talking about the weather. “If light cuts and stab wounds are your thing though, you might not get bored.”

Corivo stopped, back to the water. “You’ve an offer to make me,” he said, reluctant. “You wish to recruit me to the service of your lord, as Grafton did?”

“I’m building a company, just over one hundred strong,” Steve said. “Could use a doctor.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Corivo warned.

“You wouldn’t fight,” Steve said. “Everyone has their role.”

Corivo furrowed his brow, but he was wavering. “Westerosi wars are messy…”

“Hey, Braavos is pretty easy to reach from Pentos, isn’t it?” Steve said. He didn’t know anything about sleeping with another man’s wife, but if the ‘gentleman’s disagreement’ had been enough to put Corivo to flight…

“...but a mess is easy to disappear into for a time,” Corivo said. He smiled. “What coin do you offer me?”

“Three stags a day-”

Corivo tsked.

“-and I share with you what medical knowledge I have.”

“Done,” Corivo said instantly.

“Hold on, you haven’t heard the end of it yet,” Steve said. “You’re a doctor, and that comes first, but otherwise, duties are shared. If you sign up, you’ll take a turn on the chores, you’ll exercise with the rest of us, and you’ll pull your weight, same as everybody else.”

“Even you?” Corivo asked in challenge.

“Even me,” Steve said. “I dug two latrines on our march here, and I’ll dig more. You won’t have to fight, or stand watch or the like, but with no patients, you’ll do the rest.”

The Essosi was surprised, but seemed to be thinking it over now, in contrast to his earlier immediate acceptance. A strong sea breeze swept in as he thought.

“Must I join the exercise?” he asked at length.

“Yep,” Steve said. “You’ll hate me for it too, until it saves your life.”

“...like I never left…” he muttered to himself, holding a fist to his mouth. “This is a difficult decision.”

“Take your time,” Steve said. He returned his gaze to the harbour, taking in the view as Corivo began to pace slowly.

“Excuse me, Lord America?”

Steve turned to face the servant who had approached. “Yes son?”

The young man swallowed at his attention. “Lord Arryn extends you an invitation to the Grafton manor house, at your convenience as Lord Elbert mentioned your task.”

“Thank you,” Steve said. “Tell them I’ll get there when I’m finished here.”

“Yes milord,” the servant said. “Also, Lord Brandon wishes you to know that he has settled Lady Naerys into your rooms already.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Of course Brandon couldn’t resist the dig. “Tell Brandon I’m taking my dirt on his brother to the grave. Those words exactly.”

The kid almost quailed at the thought of delivering the message, but managed to nod. “Yes milord,” he said again, before scurrying off.

When he turned back to Corivo, the man was watching him speculatively. “The medical knowledge, it is on the level of the collapsed lungs? I won’t ask for secrets, but I would prefer a firm agreement.”

“I’ll share everything I know,” Steve said. “I don’t agree with hoarding knowledge that can save lives.”

Corivo blinked at him. “Very well. The knowledge, and three silver stags a day. Deal.” He offered his hand again.

Steve took it, shaking it in his own style. “I’ll introduce you to my seneschal and my second in command later, but welcome aboard.”

“Thank you,” Corivo said, bemused by the handshake. “I know it is not the local way, but perhaps a contract…?”

“I’ll have it done,” Steve said.

Whatever lingering unsurety Corivo might have had was wiped clean. “Excellent. Where do we march to first?”

“Pentos,” Steve said, lips twitching.

“Ah,” Corivo said, freezing.

“Don’t worry,” Steve said. “While you’re with me, you’re under my protection, even if you pissed off the leader of the city.”

“Well, if Lord America says so,” Corivo said.

Steve stopped, amusement being replaced by wary tiredness. “Don’t tell me you’ve heard of me.”

“Only a little,” Corivo said, “something about a daring Ride.”

Steve fought the urge to pray for patience. “I’ll see you later, Corivo,” he said instead. “Good luck with the patients.”

“Lord America,” Corivo said, affecting a bow, though the smile he wore belied any seriousness.

Steve shook his head and left, leaving the hospital behind. He had worked up an appetite, but at least the hardest work was done, and he had even done right by his troops. A productive morning.

X x X

“Now that we’ve taken the city,” Steve said, tucking into a plate piled high with last night’s roast lamb and vegetables, “what’s our next step?” It was not his first plate, and likely not his last.

“We’ve got a few priorities,” Naerys said. She had already eaten lunch, empty plate pushed aside in favour of the paperwork before her. “Some more important than others.”

They had claimed the dining room at the Grafton manor for the business, not the large feasting hall but one meant for more intimate dinners. Steve sat at the head of the long table, Naerys to his left. They were not the only ones in the room; Keladry sat to his right working on her second plate. She was sweaty despite not participating in the battle, as she had thought it a fine idea to set the men to running messages and supplies for the army in lieu of their daily exercises. Toby was at her side, practising his letters with a stick of charcoal and a scowl.

“Supplies mostly, right?” Steve said. “Armour, personal kits, marching supplies, horses,” he said, raising a finger with each point.

“Lord Arryn wished to speak with you, but it wasn’t urgent,” Naerys said.

“I imagine he’s busy right now anyway,” Steve said. “I’ll touch base when he has a spare moment.”

“Something tells me time would be made for you,” Keladry said, glancing up from her plate briefly.

Steve made a face. Being well known opened doors, even if he’d rather fly under the radar at times. He just didn’t seem to be any good at staying unknown. “The men have been put through their paces, so no need to do that. Lunch is in progress, so there’s only one more important thing to take care of.”

Naerys frowned, thinking. “What is-oh, a ship for Pentos?”

“Nope,” Steve said. He reached out, covering one of Naerys’ hands with his own and looking her seriously in the eye. “We haven’t gone on a date since we left the Gates of the Moon.”

She flushed, but still raised her chin in challenge. “That is an important task. What did you have in mind?”

Toby mimed gagging, but he was ignored, save for Keladry poking him in the arm.

“There’s no music halls, but I thought we could find a beach and have a picnic,” Steve said. “What do you say?”

“I would like that,” Naerys said, leaning in. Keladry’s fork clinked against her plate and she seemed to remember that they were not alone. She coughed. “But first, the other things.”

“Right,” Steve said. “Personal equipment first.” His chewing slowed as he thought, considering what he could feasibly acquire in a short enough time frame. They were in a city, so it should be easy enough, so long as he didn’t go too crazy.

“Personal equipment?” Keladry asked.

“Something that every soldier will carry to make their lives easier,” Steve said. “Like a shovel.”

“A shovel?” Naerys asked, putting down her quill. “That seems awkward.”

“Not a normal one,” Steve said. “Much smaller haft, and the head should fold down or come off to make it easier to carry.” He didn’t like his chances of having one hundred odd folding shovels made with the level of tech around, but maybe something that could be twisted and locked into place when used. “Good boots are a must too. Don’t bother with any that won’t keep the wet out.”

Keladry made a noise of disgust, nodding fervently in a rare display of overt emotion.

“Good boots…” Naerys said, as she wrote it down, adding them to the list. “What else?”

“Slings, if we can swing it. I want to get the men training on them. They won’t be as good as Osric and Ren’s group, but a rain of stones is a rain of stones.”

“Useful for skirmishing,” Keladry said. “Perhaps less so against a more organised force.”

“Any force is unorganised if they don’t know we’re there until we strike,” Steve said, shooting her a grin. “But speaking of skirmishing…I want every man to carry two javelins. Something that can be thrown or used in melee.”

“I’ve been teaching them some spear techniques, but not ones suitable for use with a throwing spear,” Keladry said.

“Lean on the heavier side then,” Steve said. “It’s only meant for a single volley to soften them up, and to be retrieved after.” He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking through a theoretical battle. A volley or three of slings, then one of spears, all before the enemy closed to melee would certainly tilt the scales in their favour.

“Rondel daggers,” Keladry said.

“Sorry?”

“For the men,” she said. “They should all have rondel daggers, in case they come up against a knight.”

“Good idea,” Steve said.

Naerys’ quill scratched away, adding it to the list. “All this in addition to the equipment we already discussed.”

“Bedroll, two man tent, rations, waterskins, change of clothes, spare footwraps, flint,” Steve listed off.

“What about luxuries?” Keladry asked. At Steve’s questioning look, she explained. “You spoke of morale boosters, so I thought you might have more beyond the meals in mind.”

“I was thinking the enemy would supply those for us,” Steve said. “Lords don’t strike me as the type to be frugal when they ride to war.”

“Likely be fighting the Reachmen, or the Crownlanders,” Naerys said, lips twitching in a smile. “I don’t imagine they will be.”

Keladry inclined her head in agreement.

“That’s that then,” Steve said, finishing his plate. “What next?”

“Armour,” Naerys said. “If we want to get it before we leave, we need to order quickly.”

“I know the knights we recruited all have plate of some kind,” Steve said, “but I don’t think that’d be the best option for everyone else.”

“The jump to full plate might be asking too much,” Keladry said.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I was thinking brigandine. Seems like it’d be the best option given what we’ll be doing down south.”

“Easier to get, certainly,” Naerys said. “We would need…at least ninety sets.”

“They won’t need to craft them from scratch, surely,” Steve said.

“There should be plenty available, yes, but…” Naerys said.

“But?” Steve prompted.

“They won’t be in your colours,” she said, frowning slightly. Steve thought it looked cute.

“Probably for the best,” Steve said. “We’ll be doing deep woods work or trying to blend in otherwise.”

“What of helms?” Keladry asked.

“Something that won’t obscure vision, if we’re leaning into skirmishing and ranged tactics,” Steve said. He was pretty happy with his helm; he couldn’t imagine trying to stay aware of the battlefield with some of the helms he’d seen. Even Keladry’s armet helm was a bit too restricting for his tastes.

“Kettle, nasal, sallet?” Keladry suggested.

“Sallet, open faced,” Steve decided.

“You’ll want a gorget,” Keladry said. “Plate or chain?”

“Chain,” Steve said. “Don’t like our chances of getting that many plate gorgets in time.”

Keladry nodded, leaning back in her chair after becoming engaged in the discussion.

“Have I forgotten anything?” Steve asked.

“Nothing that comes to mind,” Keladry said. She seemed not just satisfied, but content.

“On to the horses then,” Steve said.

“Finally,” Toby said, pushing his homework away and standing up. It didn’t do much for his view over the table. “When’re we gettin’ them?”

“I don’t fancy shipping that many horses to Storm’s End from here,” Steve said.

Toby pulled a face. “Neither. Buy em down there?”

“Seems the smart option,” Steve agreed.

“Finding a ship for one hundred men will be a stretch already,” Naerys noted.

“Storm’s End then,” Steve said, settling it.

Naerys finished writing her list with a flourish, and set her quill aside. “I think that was everything?”

“One last thing,” Steve said. “You’ve still got the list of all the troops handy?”

“Somewhere,” Naerys said, looking over the paper before her.

“I want to make identity tags for the men,” Steve said. “Just a bit of metal on a string they can wear that has their name and where they’re from on it, maybe their year of birth.”

“For what purpose?” Naerys asked, head tilted.

“Partly to foster belonging,” Steve said, before grimacing, “and partly so that if someone dies badly, we can tell who they were.”

“I think they would appreciate it,” Keladry said.

“Do I get one too?” Toby asked.

“You won’t need one,” Steve said immediately. War was war, but like hell were any of the kids going to die on his watch. “But we can have one made for you anyway,” he said, after seeing Toby’s disappointment.

Toby brightened, then turned to Keladry. “I’m finished,” he said, pushing his homework towards her. “Can I go now?”

Keladry glanced it over, and nodded. “Well done.” She rustled his hair. “Clean up and you can go.”

The boy was quick to rush off, no mystery as to where, and the adults began to pack up. They knew what had to be done, now they just had to do it.

X

The rest of their time in Gulltown was a rush of preparation and waiting. Orders were placed and tradesmen paid, all eager to work with the man that so many tales were told of. The celebration feast that Jon held ensured that his deeds in the taking of the city spread, though Steve wasn’t sure how he felt about it. On one hand, it was nice to be appreciated. On the other…fame. Still, it opened doors and hastened orders that might otherwise have made life more difficult, so he bore with it. It took the better part of a week to gather all they needed.

The day they presented the men their new armour and equipment warmed Steve’s heart. It was something special to see a group of men, some more grown than others, as they picked through their new gear like kids on Christmas morning. The armour was mostly browns, though Naerys had snuck some of his navy blue in there on the gambesons. The sallet helms had been darkened to avoid shine, and they had boots that Steve would have been happy to march across Europe in.

“Let’s get those packs on your backs now,” Steve had said, calling over the talk and clamour of the field they had gathered in outside the walls. “See how they sit on your shoulders.”

The three officers of the company had watched as the compact rucksacks were hoisted and adjusted. All were dressed in their armour, and Walt had finally given up on holding tight to his old mail and gambeson, clad in new brigandine like the rest. When the men had all their gear upon them, they stood taller, prouder. Even the knights in their plate were pleased. All wore their dog tags openly around their necks.

Steve had said nothing, looking out at them as a smile slowly began to spread across his face. At first the men had seemed to expect a speech, but none was forthcoming, his smile only growing, and then they began to understand. In the front row, Robin was shaking his head in denial, and Steve nodded slowly at him. Despair spread across his face, and like a wave, it then spread through the company as they came to understand.

“Boy,” Steve had said, “doesn’t it seem like a fine day?” It was overcast, and if the weather turned there would be a drizzle for sure.

Someone had groaned outright, but none spoke.

“What do you think, Walt?” Steve had asked.

“Fine day for a run,” Walt had answered, bare hint of a smile on his own face, something that scared the men just as much as their imminent suffering.

It had been too, at least in Steve’s opinion. He hadn’t heard any complaining in any case, though that might have been because they couldn’t spare the breath between the run and the cadence.

Things came together, and Stannis was eager to be gone, searching out ships capable of carrying Steve’s company and what horses they had. When he wasn’t interrogating the ship captains to pass through the port, he had taken to his exercises with a will, and was often seen making his way along the city walls with a crutch and a glower. It was six days since the taking of the city that he found a carrack that would suit their purposes. A feast was thrown to see them on their way, and promises to meet again were shared between those who were parting. The mood was optimistic, and Steve made time for all those friendships he had struck up, knowing it would be months before they met again, if at all.

On the seventh day, they departed for Pentos.

X x X

Clear skies and favourable winds saw their journey to Pentos a pleasant one, the carrack Stannis had chartered parting the waves easily. The crew was a Braavosi one, and so more open to diverting to Storm’s End when they were told of the brewing situation in King’s Landing and the subsequent depressed profits.

The men were kept busy during the voyage, taught how to use and maintain their new equipment, and of course introduced to new exercises that they could do on the ship. Steve spent his time getting to know his soldiers better, and practising with his ‘repaired’ shield, getting used to the new balance of it, now that it had been capped with steel to give him the cover he was used to.

Keladry had taken to commandeering part of the deck for her glaive exercises, putting on a lethal display of polearm skill, and he joined her sometimes, drawing many an eye as they sparred. She was already leagues more skilled than she had been when they met, her time in Steve’s retinue giving her the chance to be challenged and grow.

Naerys hadn’t let her time in Gulltown pass without taking advantage of the goods it held, and had stocked up on books, visibly warring between getting every book that caught her eye and being mindful of the campaign to come. She had compromised, and only bought five, and tended to spend her days devouring them somewhere sunny and cool. Steve itched to sketch her as she sat against the bowsprit, but his supplies were running low, so he satisfied himself with sneaking up to wrap his arms around her from time to time.

None wasted their time aboard the ship, even if it was a break from the march and the hard training of before. All could feel that they were reaching the end of the easy days, could feel that they were in the final lull before the storm. Stannis exercised his leg on the main deck, daring anyone to comment on the healing stump, and Robin could be found watching him often as not, frowning in thought as he considered something. Steve would have to check in on him, but that could wait.

That day, Steve found himself seeking out Lyanna. She had suffered again much as she had on the journey to Braavos, puking up her guts over the side, but the sailing had been smooth enough that she seemed to have improved, even keeping down a simple broth. He found her belowdecks, chatting with Betty and her four girls in the room they called their own. A porthole window provided light.

“Lord America,” Betty said as he stuck his head in, the first to notice him. She made to rise.

“No, don’t mind me,” Steve said, gesturing for them all to remain seated. Even Lyanna had started to rise. “I’m just here to check in.”

They settled back down, taking up the needle and thread they had been working at in what space the room had at its middle. It seemed they were mending clothes, though the talk had been social before he interrupted.

“All is well,” Betty said, speaking for the group. “Milord is very generous.”

Her four girls nodded with her. They were young women really, but had settled into the company with a will and a determination to make things work, even when he had started setting them to exercises. Not on the level he had subjected his soldiers too, but they had done well nonetheless.

“Joyce, Jayne, Jeyne, Ursa,” Steve said to them. “How are you now?” They each had the brown hair and blue eyes seemingly so common in the Vale, hands and faces weathered by hard work.

“Glad to be off the horses, milord,” Joyce said. “Not that we’re complaining,” she added.

“Complain away,” Steve said. He leaned against the doorway. “Learning to ride sucks.”

Jeyne, shortest of them all, tittered. “It’s better than hours at the washtub, stirring fabrics.”

“I can imagine,” Steve said. “I know a few lords who couldn’t manage it.”

“Not that they’d admit to it,” Betty said. Of them, she had adjusted easiest to Steve's management style, quickly understanding that he wasn’t one for high ceremony.

“How’s the stomach?” Steve asked, turning to Lyanna. She was still wan and pale, despite getting a meal down.

Lyanna pulled a face. “Please pick a continent and stick to it,” she said. “More of these voyages and I’ll regret leaving Harrenhal.”

“But think of the adventures, the stories you’ll have to tell,” Steve said. When she didn’t look impressed, he pulled out the big guns. “Robin has to make up for the seasickness, surely.”

A red flush crept up the back of her neck, and the others smiled, scenting blood, like sharks and older sisters.

“We’ve heard tell of young squire Robin,” Ursa said. She had taken best to the training Steve had offered, soaking it up with enthusiasm. “His broad shoulders.”

“His hair,” Joyce said.

“His smile,” Jayne added, not letting her shyness stop her from getting one in.

“Ugh, stop,” Lyanna said, though she couldn’t help but smile.

Steve glanced at her, and decided that mercy was for the weak. “She tell you of the time I had to give her and Robin a tal-”

“No no no, stop,” Lyanna said, smile replaced by panic and trauma.

Steve raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright,” he said, though the looks the women were sharing said that she hadn’t gotten out of it that easily. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you have any concerns.”

He turned to leave, getting out of their hair and closing the door behind himself. He didn’t imagine it was fun for a servant to have a lord looking over their shoulder as they worked. He was halfway down the narrow ship hall when the door opened and closed again, and he looked back to see Lyanna watching him. She chewed at her lip for a moment, and then approached him, flickering oil lanterns illuminating her frowning face.

“Lyanna?” Steve asked. “Everything alright?”

She was silent for a moment. “Why am I here?”

“I’m sorry?” Steve said.

“Why am I here?” she asked again. “I’m not a great warrior like Keladry, I don’t have Toby’s thing with horses or Robin’s skill with the bow. I just-”

“Stop,” Steve said, raising a hand. She did, and he put it on her shoulder. “You don’t need to justify your presence,” he said. “You’re here because you helped me with something no one else could. Even if you hadn’t, and I’d just hired you as a servant, you’re just a kid. You don’t need to be anything but a kid.”

“I am just a servant,” Lyanna said, crossing her arms.

Steve took his hand off her shoulder. “No one is just anything,” he said to her. The ship swayed gently as he spoke. “Naerys, Keladry and I all know you’re a good kid. You’re Toby’s friend, Robin’s special friend,” here he raised a brow at her, teasing, and she managed a slight smile. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Lyanna, and I feel I can trust you. That’s just as valuable as any special skill or talent.”

His words seemed to get through to her, at least to a point, and she let out a breath. “You’re so- you gave me a silver stag just for offering to help you, the first time we met.”

“Good comes from good,” Steve said, shrugging.

“So I want to do good for you,” Lyanna said. “I want to be useful. What can I do?”

Steve rubbed at his chin, considering. He’d need a shave soon. It sounded like Lyanna felt listless, without direction. Like she wanted some greater purpose. For a moment, he thought about the ease that she made friends out of castle servants and squirrelled her way into things she probably shouldn’t be able to, but then he considered that he was talking to a teenage girl. “Naerys tells me you have a good head for numbers and organising,” he said. “That you’ve picked up her lessons faster than the boys. That’s a valuable skillset to be nurtured.”

“Really?” Lyanna said, doubtful.

“A group like us without someone like Naerys would still be in Gulltown trying to get supplies,” Steve said. “If you want to practise a skill that can make a difference, stick with Naerys and ask for more lessons. Her father taught her a bit, and she’s picked up more since.”

Lyanna was visibly turning his words over, considering. “I did like counting the money,” she admitted.

Steve smiled, glad to see her spirits picking up. “Maybe wait until she’s finished reading before you approach her.”

“I saw the look she gave that sailor,” Lyanna said. “Don’t need to tell me.” She turned to head back down the hall, but hesitated, looking back at him. “Steve…thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve said. “You’re one of mine.”

Lyanna gave him a small smile, and went back to Betty and the others, spring in her step. Steve watched her go. That kid would be alright.

X

“Peg legs are kind of crap, aren’t they?” Robin asked.

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. They had completed a lesson earlier, but now they were seated halfway up the rigging that the sailors used to climb up the mast, legs dangling through the ropes as they watched the sunset, its orange light glittering on the waters. “What makes you say that?”

“There was an old sailor who lived near us, back in King’s Landing,” Robin said. “He limped everywhere, and hated to buckle it on, said it chafed at him.”

“It doesn’t sound great,” Steve said. He waited, ready to listen. For a time, there was only the sound of the ship’s prow breaking through the water.

“I was speaking to Lord Stannis earlier,” Robin said. “He said he’d have the blacksmith at his castle make him a leg, but it sounded like he was talking about a peg leg.”

“You don’t think that’s any good?” Steve asked.

“It’s not what I’d want, if I’d lost a leg,” Robin said. “I used to have nightmares about losing an arm or a hand. My brothers told me the Gold Cloaks would lop one right off if they caught you stealing.”

“What were you thinking?” Steve asked. The kid clearly had something on his mind.

“I was checking my bow over, the other day,” Robin said. “We hit a big wave and I stumbled, but I caught myself on my bow. It sprang a little, you know?”

“And a peg leg is just a stiff block of wood,” Steve said, seeing where he was going.

“Right,” Robin said. “So I thought, what if instead of that, we make a leg out of a bow limb?”

“Huh,” Steve said, thinking it over. It was a good idea, especially from a kid who hadn’t seen a proper prosthetic before. He had half thought about doing a few scribbles, but it seemed that Robin had beaten him to the punch. “Have you spoken to Stannis about this?”

Robin ducked his head, looking out over the water. “I thought maybe you could bring it up.”

“Or we could both go see him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bite your head off,” Steve offered. He was going to give the kid all the credit though.

“He’s a Lord Paramount’s brother,” Robin protested.

“And you’re Lord America’s squire,” Steve said, only mostly joking. “Stannis isn’t so bad, he’s just an intense kid.”

“Right, sure,” Robin said.

“You’ll have a foot in these circles by the time this war is over,” Steve said, more seriously now. “Might as well start getting used to talking to nobles now.”

“I talk to you all the time,” Robin said.

“So talking to Stannis won’t be a problem for you then?”

Robin grumbled under his breath, the words snatched away by the wind.

“What do you need to make a prototype?” Steve asked.

“A what?”

“A working example of your idea,” Steve said. “I think Stannis would appreciate more than just the idea.”

Robin’s brow furrowed in thought. “More than what we have on hand. Do you think we could get things in Pentos? Then I could work on it on the way to Storm’s End.”

Now it was Steve’s turn to frown. “Maybe. I’m not sure I like the idea of anyone wandering the city. If nothing else we can put it on the list.”

Robin nodded, happy with the answer. “I think it’ll work. Really.”

“I think it’ll work too,” Steve said. He took one hand off the ropes of the rigging and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good thinking, squire.”

“Thanks Steve,” Robin said, ducking his head.

They turned their gazes back to the sunset, watching as dusk came and the sun began to disappear beyond the horizon in truth, stars becoming visible in the sky. There was something to be said for such things in a world without pollution.

X

The docks of Pentos were a riot, busier than Gulltown by far, though not as busy as Braavos. Colourful ships with colourful captains were everywhere, and there was no end to the goods being loaded and unloaded. It was a vibrant entrance to a vibrant city, folk of all stripes to be seen, and from the deck of the ship they had arrived on, Steve watched it all with a deep frown. His hands gripped the rail, and under them, the wood creaked.

“Is he well?” Stannis muttered quietly behind him.

“He doesn’t like slavery,” Naerys murmured back, just as quiet.

“He looks like he’s about to leap over the rail and do battle,” Stannis said.

“I’d follow him,” Keladry said, joining the conversation.

“Don’t tempt me,” Steve said, bringing their attention back to him. “What are the chances any of our people end up with collars if we give them shore leave?”

“Collars? None,” Stannis said. “A contract of servitude, however? Middling.”

The wood gave another creak of protest under his grip, louder this time. “We do need supplies.”

“A single party could gather them,” Naerys said.

“The troops wouldn’t be happy staying aboard,” Keladry said.

“How unhappy?” Steve asked.

“They’d live,” Keladry said.

“Hrngh.” Steve thought on it for a moment. “They can have shore leave, but they must stay in sight of the docks at all times, and no one goes anywhere without two buddies.”

“Reasonable,” Stannis said.

“I’ll pass the word,” Keladry said.

“I think it’s best if I stay on the ship,” Steve said, letting go of the rail and turning to the others. “Keladry, you’ll-”

Keladry shook her head, once.

“Hmm. Fair.” Steve glanced at the others. “Naerys. Take Walt, and…actually, take Walt, Hugo, Henry, and those twins Artys and Ortys as well, and head to the markets. You know what we need.”

“Right,” Naerys said, nodding. “I’ll get my sword.”

“Good,” Steve said. “I’ll get my armour ready in case I have to fight the city.” He did not seem to be joking.

“Did you wish to join me, Lord Stannis?” Naerys asked.

“No,” Stannis said. “I would only slow you.”

“I want all the men back before dark,” Steve told Keladry. “Tell them if they aren’t, I’ll come looking for them, and it’s double PT for the whole company.”

“A compelling threat,” Keladry said.

“I’d hope so,” Steve said. He set his shoulders. “No point in wasting time. I’ll be at the prow if you need me.”

Each of them went about their business, though some were more frustrated than others. Soon, Steve watched as Naerys walked down the gangplank followed by Walt and the largest members of the company, heading out to buy supplies. Her sword at her hip eased his worries somewhat, but didn’t erase them, though he knew she could look after herself. Soon after, a flood of men followed, making straight for whichever of the many nearby taverns caught their eyes, pockets weighed down by their pay. Happily, they seemed to be listening to his orders to stay in groups.

He tried to distract himself, taking in the city as the afternoon plodded on, looking for something worth sketching, but it was not to be. He found himself thinking poorly of perfectly good architecture, disparaging it within his own mind because of the politics of the city. The afternoon stretched ever onward, and though Naerys’ return helped settle him some, his men were still out there.

Towards the end of the day, Keladry approached, glaive in hand, seeking a spar. He suspected that Naerys had sent her, seeking to break him of his worrying, and he took up his shield gladly. They set the deck to ringing with their blows, fighting for the better part of half an hour, and it almost seemed to be the summons for the soldiers, the men trickling in as they fought. Sailors of neighbouring ships seemed to find the spectacle compelling, climbing their rigging to look down on them and watch.

“Good spar,” Steve told Keladry when they called an end to it. It had been too, one of the better spars he had had in a long time, and it had done wonders to ease his tension.

Keladry only nodded to him, breathing slowly and deeply as she leant against the rail, limbs trembling minutely.

Lanterns were lit as the sun disappeared, and Steve began to think that perhaps he had worried over nothing. He was pretty sure that all had returned, but he set Walt to take a roll call anyway. When the old soldier approached, scowling, he knew he had felt relief too soon.

“What is it,” Steve asked.

“We’re missing a man,” Walt said.

“Who.”

“That Myrman, Corivo,” Walt said.

Steve closed his eyes, thinking a very impolite word.

“Should I gather a few of the lads?” Walt asked.

“No. I’ll take care of this myself,” Steve said. “Tell the others, would you? I don’t think we’ll have to leave in a hurry, but best be prepared.” He took up his shield, resting nearby after the spar, and hopped over the rail. At least he was warmed up.

Walt watched him go, shaking his head as the man disappeared into the darkness. There went a whole lot of trouble looking for someone to happen to.

X

It was a worried group that waited on the ship’s deck, looking out into the city. Clouds obscured the moon, and the only lights to be seen were those shining out of the busy taverns or hanging on ships and street corners. Walt had spread the word to the others, and they had joined the vigil, now almost an hour of tense and anxious waiting.

“It has been too long,” Keladry said, breaking the silence. Her glaive was held tightly in one hand, butt resting against the deck.

Walt grunted, eyes fixed on the city.

“A party could be sent out,” Naerys said.

“Said he’d take care of it,” Toby said, peering over the rail.

“An hour ago,” Robin said. His fingers played along his bowstring, and his gaze tracked every shadowed figure that walked along the docks.

“We wouldn’t know where to look,” Lyanna said.

Something about the night changed, stilling their conversation, and it took them a moment to realise what. A glow could be seen rising above the city rooftops, casting orange light into the night sky.

“I think we might,” Robin said.

Smoke began to coil, illuminated by the glow of the growing fire.

“I want to say he wouldn’t,” Naerys said.

“You know he did,” Keladry said.

Distantly, bells began to ring, sounding the alarm as the glow of the fire grew. Those going about their business by the docks spared a glance, but went on their ways. Some fire in the rich part of town wasn’t their problem. A squad of the city watch hustled along, heading into the city. Sailors unlucky enough to have watch duty on nearby ships called out to one another, gossipping over the possible cause of it all.

A short time later, when the fire seemed to have reached its peak, two figures emerged from one of the streets that led to the docks. One was tall and strong, a shield on one arm, and the other was slim and wore a short robe.

The companions watched as Steve and Corivo neared the ship, worry easing greatly as they saw Steve uninjured. There was a faint scent of smoke about them, and the robe Corivo wore was more suited to an intimate encounter than a walk through the city, falling only to mid thigh. It had a floral pattern. He smiled awkwardly through a split lip at the unimpressed looks he was receiving.

“Lovely night, yes?” he asked.

Naerys ignored him to approach Steve, checking him over. There was blood on his knuckles, but otherwise he was fine. “You’re ok. What happened?”

Steve turned to Corivo, though he seemed more exasperated than displeased. “That’s a good question. Corivo?”

“I would like it known that my absence was not the fault of my companions, and that they really should not be punished for it,” Corivo began.

“We’ll see,” Steve said. “Word already got around that you didn’t make curfew.”

Corivo winced. “You see, in the city I have a lady friend-”

“A married lady friend,” Steve said.

“-a married lady friend, whom I was forced to part with recently without even saying my farewells,” Corivo said. “Her husband…well. I took the chance to send her a message wishing her well, only for the lady herself to arrive, disguised, at the tavern! Technically I had not left the company of my fellows at this stage.”

“What was she disguised as?” Toby asked.

Corivo hesitated, looking from Toby to Keladry, not quite willing to answer.

Lyanna snickered, having guessed.

“Go on,” Steve said, giving him a reprieve.

“We retired to a room to discuss our meeting, but it turns out that while her guards were loyal to her, her husband had set more to following her,” Corivo said. “I was invited rather forcefully back to his estate.” He shivered as a breeze swept in over the water.

“So you didn’t head into the city on your own accord,” Steve said.

“I know better than to invite that manner of collective punishment,” Corivo said. “Your physical training is tyrannical already, to say nothing of doubling it.”

“Uh huh,” Steve said. “What happened at the estate?”

“Well, the unhappy couple argued for a time, he asked her how she could do this to him, she asked him how his mistresses were going, he threatened my manhood, the usual,” Corivo said. “You arrived after he had his servants fetch the crocodile, and, well.”

Robin and Walt winced, shifting in place and pressing their knees together.

Steve rubbed his forehead. “Just…go and get yourself tidied up.”

Corivo nodded, doing his best to retain his dignity in the short robe he wore. “I will. And - thank you. You said I was under your protection, and it is good to see you meant it.”

“I protect my people,” Steve said. “You can pass the word that there won’t be double PT tomorrow. Just the normal training.”

A relieved sigh answered him, and Corivo swanned off as best he could, disappearing belowdecks.

“Sorry I kept you all up,” Steve said, looking around at his companions.

Keladry finally eased the grip she had on her glaive. “It is no matter.”

“Still,” Steve said. “Make sure you get some rest. We’re leaving for Storm’s End in the morning.”

Lyanna groaned, and Robin rubbed her shoulder in sympathy. In the absence of worry, weariness began to set in, and they all made their way down to their rooms, having quite had their fill of Pentos.

X

The weather took a turn for the worse as they cross the Narrow Sea once more, turning west just before they would have entered the Sea of Myrth. The plan had been to make for the southern point of Tarth, and from there use the isle as shelter from the worst of the storms that gave the region its name as best they could, but it was not to be. A swell and a stiff wind blew them south, almost on a line with Cape Wrath, or so the sailors said, and dark clouds lurked to the north.

The captain that Stannis had chartered was a skilled old sea dog, however, and his weathered hand was steady on the wheel as he called orders. Sails were trimmed, hatches were battened, and eyes were frequently cast at the storm as it loomed in the distance. Steve couldn’t call himself a sailor, and nor could any of his people, but the crew seemed optimistic even as they worked hard, and it seemed that they would outrun the storm before it could reach them in truth.

He spent the time well, using a mortar and pestle to grind down the dried meat and berries that Naerys had purchased for him in Pentos, chin wagging with some of the men as he worked in the dry of the hold. He had promised his men good grub, and he didn’t mean to let the realities of campaigning prevent him from keeping his word. If his attempt at pemmican worked, he would make more once they reached their destination. Robin too used the time well, putting together a workable example of his idea for a leg, though he still refused to approach Stannis without Steve at his shoulder.

Then, three days out from their destination, the mood of the crew took a turn for the worse. There was a tenseness to their movements, an anxious hurry in their steps that hadn’t been present before. Steve put his diversions aside and made for the main deck.

He emerged into fierce winds that set his clothes to snapping, and he had to step quickly to get out of the path of a sailor who lurched along with the roll of the ship. The sky was dark despite it being early afternoon, and he was the only passenger to be seen, save for Stannis who stood to the right of the captain at the wheel. The wind picked up as he approached them, stepping quickly up the stairs to the quarterdeck.

“Captain,” Steve said, raising his voice above the wind. “What word?”

“Tha storm nears, lord,” the captain answered, grey beard flying every which way. “Going to be a fight to stay before it.”

“Can we?” Steve asked.

“She be named Shipbreaker Bay for a reason,” the captain said grimly.

Stannis was supporting himself by the rail of the deck, and his knuckles whitened. “We will have to go below soon,” he said, “and leave the sailors to their tasks.”

Steve nodded, well aware of the importance of giving space to those with a job to do. He opened his mouth to offer the kid a hand getting down, only to pause, as he caught a glimpse of something over his shoulder. “Captain,” he said. “Do you see that?”

The storm bearing down on them from the north had understandably drawn all their attention, but at Steve’s words the captain turned and squinted, looking south.

“Boy,” he said, “fetch my glass.”

A cabin boy to his left scurried off, and returned quickly with a Myrish Eye. The captain extended it and peered through, and when he lowered it his face was grim. “Pirates,” he spat. “Two of them.”

“Would they attack and risk the storm?” Stannis asked.

“My girl is a carrack, a hefty bitch, and they’re built for speed,” the captain said, grey eyes simmering with anger. “They mean to try and run us down and escape before the storm reaches us in truth.”

“If they reach us, my men and I will deal with them,” Steve said. “You do what you need to to keep us afloat.”

The captain glanced at him. Like the rest of the crew, he had seen the exercises that Steve had led each day. “Aye…aye,” he said. “We carry a cargo that can fight back this time. But they’ll work for it all the same!”

“Stannis?” Steve asked.

“I should wait below,” Stannis said, clenching his jaw. Large as the carrack was, the swell and roll of the sea could still send an inattentive man sprawling, let alone a man with one leg. He began to manoeuvre his way off the deck, using the rails and doing his best to avoid hopping.

Steve followed, and when they got below Keladry was waiting for them.

“Steve,” she said, expectant.

How she knew there was trouble, Steve wasn’t sure, but it mattered little. “Ready the men,” Steve said. “Pirates, two galleys. We’re going to try outrun them, but if we can’t, we’ll give them a warm welcome.”

Keladry nodded firmly, already striding off to the lower decks, while Steve and Stannis continued to their rooms.

“Steve,” Stannis said as they arrived. “These are Baratheon waters. Give these slavers no quarter.”

“Mercy is for those who deserve it,” Steve said.

“Good.”

They parted ways, and Steve ducked into his own room, finding Naerys there with Robin and Toby in the middle of another lesson. The look on his face saw it swiftly forgotten.

“What is it?” Naerys asked.

“Pirates,” Steve said. “Where is my bow?”

Whatever worry might have crossed Robin’s face at the news was immediately replaced by eagerness. “I checked it only yesterday,” he said as he scrambled to retrieve it from a chest under one of the narrow beds.

“Naerys, I want you and Toby to find Lyanna and join the other noncombatants,” he ordered. Naerys nodded, gathering up her things, but Toby scowled.

“I can fight,” the boy argued.

“No,” Steve said. “Not this time.” His tone was iron, and the mountain boy saw clearly that no amount of arguing would change his mind.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

“Ser,” Robin said, holding out his steel bow and its quiver. White feather fletching caught the eye, the arrows slightly longer and thicker than typical.

Steve accepted it, hefting its weight as he slung the quiver over his shoulder. He had bought it almost on a whim what felt like years ago in King’s Landing, wanting a reliable ranged option after the business with the Kingswood Brotherhood, and had used it only for practice since then. Now it would finally see a fight. It was similar in shape to a recurve bow, and patterns rippled in the steel of its make.

“I’m ready,” Robin declared. He had retrieved his own bow from the chest as well, and now stood ready.

Steve pressed his lips together, but didn’t gainsay him. He’d seen kids as young fighting in the War, and sending him down with those who didn’t fight wouldn’t be right to him. “You stay at my side at all times squire, unless I board an enemy ship. Then you find a vantage point and keep yourself safe.”

“Yes ser,” Robin said.

He could hear the ship rousing now, beating with hundreds of footsteps as his men made ready. “On your way, Toby. Robin, I’ll see you up there.”

The boys glanced from him to Naerys to each other, and shared a smirk, but did as he said. As soon as they left, Steve turned to Naerys, but she was already upon him, knocking him into the wall as she laid claim to his lips. The prospect of a fight had his pulse quickening, but now his blood was pumping, and he seized her by her shapely rear, holding her close. She responded in kind, pulling him back from the wall so she could grab two handfuls of America’s ass. Steve couldn’t help but grin into the kiss, both at the ridiculous thought and at the feeling of Naerys pressing herself against him, and he felt himself stirring. So did Naerys, and the twist of her hips said she appreciated it.

Footsteps thundered down the hall outside the room, reminding them of the more pressing matter at hand, and they stopped with great reluctance. Steve realised he had dropped his bow at some point.

“I’ll see you after,” he said.

“Give them hell,” she said.

They parted ways, sharing a last lingering glance as they picked their way through hallways packed with soldiers, armed but not armoured, waiting for some signal. He gave Henry a nod as he passed him by the stairs to the main deck, a small group of knights around him, one he returned. When he returned topside, he was greeted first by a light stinging rain and then by Walt and Keladry, a small group of soldiers with them on the portside of the ship. The sailors moved around them as they went about their tasks quickly, reassured by the presence of their passengers looking ready to do violence. Like those below, they were not armoured, though Keladry wore her cuirass.

“Keladry,” Steve said as he joined them. “You’re keeping the men below?”

“Until the last moment,” she said. “I want to surprise them.”

“Smart,” Steve said. He looked out to the pirates; they were closer now, but still some distance away. There was no doubt as to their intentions, and both flew a red flag with a black teardrop at its centre.

“Be in arrow range soon,” Walt said.

“Hmm,” Steve said, not disagreeing. “Where’s Robin?”

Keladry pointed up to the quarterdeck, where Robin had claimed a decent vantage point. He had an arrow strung, but not drawn.

“I’m going to give them a warning shot,” Steve said. The wind and the rain would make accuracy difficult, not to mention the range, but he didn’t need to thread a needle, just put a bit of fear into the figures gathered on the approaching galleys.

His bow had drawn looks due to its unusual make, and it garnered more as he put an arrow to its dark string and drew it back, breathing out sharply with the effort. Humfrey was one of the men on deck, and his brows rose, pulling the scar over his left eye with them, knowing well the kind of strength Steve had.

The galleys grew closer, perhaps four hundred yards away, and Steve could make out the details on the pirates’ faces. They were an ugly lot, scarred and brutal, and the rain was likely the closest thing to a bath they’d seen for months. Steve breathed slowly and evenly as he lined up his shot, remembering Clint’s advice. One of them wore a ragged and once-fancy hat, and he aimed for him.

The deck rocked and swayed, and Steve led his target as best he could, trying to compensate for the movement of the smaller ship. It could not be compared to the archery range at Harrenhal. They noticed him, and looked to be jeering, pointing and laughing, some holding their arms out in invitation. He ignored them, let out a final breath, and loosed.

The arrow buzzed as it left the string, but the sound was soon swallowed by the wind, and Steve’s eyes tracked the arrow by its white fletching as it sped towards its target. It did not hit the target he had aimed for - but it did pierce the chest of the man beside him, the force of it knocking him back and pinning him to the mast. The pirates around him fell and scrambled away in shock, their jeering ended.

“Yep,” Walt said, squinting. “I’d say they’re fair warned.”

“We should make sure though, right,” Steve said, drawing another arrow.

“Do the job right or don’t do it at all,” Walt agreed.

Steve fired another arrow, but this time the pirates were cautious, hunkering down, and the arrow shot by them, burying itself in the deck. They grew nearer, and over the howling wind Steve could hear a faint drumbeat, keeping time for the oarsmen belowdecks. He gave them another, but this hit low on the ship’s prow. They were only about one hundred yards distant now, and he could hear them hooting and hollering, eager for the blood of what they thought to be a lightly defended trader.

There was a twang from the quarterdeck, Robin taking his shot, and the man with the fancy hat clutched at the arrow that suddenly sprouted from his belly, falling to his knees.

“Good shot!” Steve shouted.

Robin grinned at him, already stringing another. His next shot pierced a man down through the left shoulder, buried halfway down the shaft, and he flopped to the deck, dead. The turkey shoot was soon to be over though, the pirates almost close enough to board. Some were already swinging grappling hooks, thirsty for blood. Steve could feel the eagerness of the men with him, hungry for their first skirmish of the war, even if it was against pirates and not the King’s forces. The rain and wind intensified, warning of the nearing storm.

“We’re going to board them,” Steve said. He watched as the two galleys drew alongside, starboard oars being drawn in to let them get as close as possible. There was some overhang at the forward and aft, but pirates from both galleys would soon be able to scramble up the side of their carrack.

To their credit, Keladry and Walt only blinked at him for a moment. Then Walt put thumb and forefinger to his lips and let out a piercing whistle, and a roar from below answered him. Men came surging up through the stairway and hatches, emerging into the rain with swords and spears at the ready.

“We take the fight to them!” Walt bellowed, raising his spear. “Let’s gut the whoresons!”

Steve was already leaping over the rail, dropping down onto the aft of the front galley and introducing himself feet first to a pirate. The man was crushed beneath his weight, bones audibly snapping, and then he was amongst them, laying about with his bow and knocking men over left and right.

A big man with a big cutlass rushed him, and Steve met him with a kick to the chest, sending him flying over the opposite side of the ship and into the ocean. He knocked two men over with his bow while seizing a third by the neck with his spare hand, snapping their neck with a squeeze. The pirates tried to press in on him, but his back was to the rail, and they didn’t have the stones, already shocked by his sudden entry. He punched a man in the head, caving in their skull and headbutted another, slapping aside a dagger that sought to gut him. He was unarmoured, vulnerable to such things, but they were just too slow.

A moment later he was no longer alone, his men joining him. A net had been thrown over the side of the carrack for them to scramble down, and they swarmed forward with a wordless roar. He could hear the same being repeated on the ship behind, and a quick glance saw a glaive flash upwards, already covered in dark blood.

Savage killers they might be, the pirates were no soldiers, almost all fighting alone, seeking only to kill the man before them. He saw Hugo pick up one by the neck and leg and hurl him at a man wielding knives as they threatened to gut his friend Tim while the man was warding off another foe, flattening him. Numbers were swiftly telling, and fear swept through the pirates as they realised how outmatched they were. No longer a fight, it was soon a case of mopping up what remained. There was nowhere to flee to on the open ocean.

There was a hatch nearby that led below, and Steve led the way towards it. The oarsmen might not have been part of the boarding party, but they were still pirates, and he wasn’t going to let them escape to prey on other ships. A metal grate blocked the way, but he ignored the lock and pulled it open with a heave, ripping nails from the deck and letting it fall with a clang. He jumped down, bow at the ready to ward off any foe laying in wait.

It took only a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, a cold anger descended upon him. It was not more pirates that waited for him. It was row upon row of slaves, staring at him in fear. Someone shifted, and the manacle at their wrist clinked.

Steve strode towards the closest bench, and the three men on it pulled back for all the good it did them, shackled to the oar as they were. He handed his bow off to the nearest man to follow him down, seized the iron shackles in both hands, and tore them apart. They clattered loudly as he dropped them to the ground, already moving on to the next man.

“We need to free these men and get them rowing to safety,” Steve said. He turned to the man he had given his bow to as he worked; it was one of the twins, the other right beside him. Rather than try to determine which was which, he spoke to both. “Artys, go to the other ship and tell Keladry or Walt what is going on. If there are slaves on board, I want them freed and ready to row. Ortys, return to the carrack and tell the captain to send some sailors over to crew the galleys.”

The brothers nodded and left, one taking his bow with him, but Steve was only concerned with breaking chains, setting his bare hands to work undoing the evil he found before him. The men who had followed him down began to help, prying the manacle anchors from the oars. Mutters began to spread amongst the slaves, at first disbelieving, but then with growing hope. The eyes of those he freed followed him, fixed on him as he worked.

“Does anyone here speak Westerosi?” Steve called, voice echoing in the dark hold.

“I do!” a man closer to the front of the ship answered. “I speak it!” It sounded like it was his mother tongue.

“Do you speak Valyrian?” Steve asked, as he continued to break chains, letting them fall with a clatter.

“Yes, some!”

“Tell everyone two things: that they are free, and that the storm is getting closer. They’ll have to row their way to safety, but if they follow us they’ll live.”

The man, filthy and gap toothed but with blond hair and pale skin peeking out from under it, spoke a few broken phrases, voice breaking as he raised it, rusty from disuse. There was a moment of silence where it seemed every oarsman seemed to stop breathing. It was broken when one of them called out in Valyrian, asking something. Steve had reached the Westerosi man now, and he looked to him for translation.

“They want to know who you are,” the man asked, swallowing. “And what you want from them.”

There was only one answer to give.

“My name is Captain America,” Steve said, “and I want you to be free.”

The breaking of waves against the ship and manacles on the floor punctuated his words and the translator could only stare at him, blinking back sudden tears. He choked as he spoke, sharing the words.

Another man, newly freed, rose to his feet. He looked Steve in the eye and spoke a word. It was not one Steve had heard before, but he knew what it meant, and he repeated it.

“Freedom.”

The freed slaves took it up, repeating it amongst themselves, and it only spread, repeated with every broken shackle. In that moment, Steve understood. This was why he was here. He did not know how the Stones had sent him here, but he knew why, and he was content.

One of the twins returned, and with him was one of the sailors.

“What word -” he hesitated only for a moment “-Artys?”

“The other ship is clear, and the slaves are being freed,” the big man reported. Despite his frame, his voice was quiet. “The captain sent a few men to both, but he’ll need some of us to do heavy lifting to make up for it.”

“Pass the word, see it done,” Steve said. “The sooner we’re underway again, the better.”

The words of the freed slaves grew and became one, growing to a chant as everyone worked quickly. Steve returned to the main deck to see the galleys being untied from the carrack, and the first mate in place behind the wheel. Oars protruded from the starboard side again, used to push the galley clear, and the chant only grew, taking on a cadence, rising even above the growing roar of the storm. Sailors worked with slightly wide eyes, and Steve looked back to see Keladry standing at the prow of her galley. Victory blazed in her eyes, and he knew it was the same in his own. The chant spread between the two ships, the men of the second taking it up themselves. Gone was the drumming of the oarmaster, and in its place was freedom.

The storm bore down upon them, but they did not fear it, they could not, not with the chant of free men speeding them on. Flags of red and black were torn down as they sailed, never to spread fear again. Hundreds of slaves had been freed, and most of those involved called it a righteous deed, save for Steve.

He called it a good start.

X

The storm broke, and in its wake a certain measure of calm returned to the seas. No true calm, not in a place called Shipbreaker Bay, but it was calm enough as the three ships made their final approach to the castle of Storm’s End. There was no safe anchorage at the castle itself, sheer cliffs and treacherous rocks barring the way, but there was a township nearby that serviced visiting ships, and they made for the docks there, all eager to step on dry land.

Their approach had not gone unnoticed, and a party of riders seemed to race them to the town, stag banners billowing in their wake. Steve and Stannis watched from the quarterdeck of the carrack, preparations already over and done with. The soldiers had been briefed, the freedmen informed of what awaited them, and the sailors set to their tasks of unloading the ship. Small mercies for Toby, keeping the horses calm.

It was midmorning when they drifted easily into dock. The riders had beaten them there, but only just, and it seemed their leader had not the patience to dismount and walk to greet them, having ridden all the way through the town to canter along the largest pier. Those with him trailed behind, caught between keeping up and not galloping through the town.

“Ahoy the ship!” bellowed the leader, a powerfully muscled man with a beaming grin on his face. “Is that you, America? I hear you’ve brought my brother to me!” There was a small boy seated before him on his horse, and he too was waving frantically.

“Brother,” Stannis said to himself, already sounding tired. He wore the yellow and black of his House, and the leg of his trousers was tied off neatly.

“Go on, say hello,” Steve said. “He’s happy to see you.”

Stannis sighed, but nodded. “Brother!” he bellowed back, almost as loud.

The ship was tied off, and a gangplank extended. Stannis led the way, and Steve set his shoulders, putting his best foot forward as he followed. Robert Baratheon, the Stormlands, and the war awaited them.