A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

Steve cleaned his hammer with a scrap of cloth, working viscera out from between its flanges. He sat atop Fury, watching as the battlefield was swept by the victors for those in need of aid or mercy, the pained cries of the wounded focusing their search. By the river’s edge there sat several clusters of defeated men, watched over by crescents of mounted men. The guard was a bit thin, but given how crushing the battle had been, he didn’t think they were about to rise up.

“Good day for it,” Beron said. Like Steve, he was cleaning his weapon, though the war pick was less gore covered and more simply bloody.

“As these things go, maybe,” Steve said. A frown pulled at his lips as he glanced over the bodies that littered the field; there had been a difference in the quarter offered to the foe, and it seemed to be based on what sign of allegiance they wore. Almost all of the men under guard wore tabards with the symbol of their lords upon them.

Beron inclined his head, acknowledging the point, and slipped his pick back into its loop at his hip. “Was there a reason you kept me from patrol with Thomas?” He sounded more curious than offended.

In the month since Mastford, there had been no shortage of those eager to ride and fight with him. Steve was finding that the honour of doing so was giving him a fair bit of leeway when it came to things like high society manners, such as keeping the ranking lord back and giving command of those with him to a bastard knight instead. If he was going to be treated like the belle of the war, he might as well get something out of it at least. “Those are Stark banners,” he said, gesturing to them. “If they’re around, I thought you might like to see your family.”

Beron made a slight sound of surprise. “I had thought it to be something Robert asked for.”

“Because he’s his cousin? Nah. Robert could do that for himself, couldn’t he?” Steve said, before considering. “Or is it about the…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “...thing coming from someone who isn’t family?” His grasp on what kind of nepotism was acceptable and what wasn’t was still coming along.

“Aye,” Beron said. “If Robert means to elevate him, his way will be easier if it is known that he is held in the esteem of Lord America.”

Steve nodded, fighting the urge to look heavenward. He hadn’t missed fame. At least the rest of the rebels wouldn’t have the same view of him. He deliberately pushed away the memories of his escapades prior to joining the Stormland host.

“Lord America!”

Steve turned to face the call of the approaching messenger. “Yes son?” he asked. Dear Lord, Bucky and Tony could never find out.

“Lord Eddard has returned, and is ready for you,” the man said.

“Appreciate it,” Steve said. He looked to Beron. “Let’s go then.”

They were guided on their way, but on an open field there was little need for it once they saw the circular gathering of men to one side of the battle muck, dismounted and in the middle of some discussion. Their horses were held in a group nearby by squires, and the two Rogers added their mounts to it before joining the conversation.

Their arrival caused a pause in the talk. “Ned. Good to see you,” Steve said.

“Steve,” Ned said, extending a hand to clasp. “And you.” He bore a serious look that almost seemed to have set on his face, but there was the faintest touch of a smile to him.

There were just over half a dozen men there, and some shared raised brows at the casual greeting. One of them was taller even than Steve, and just as broad.

“Circumstances could have been better,” Steve said, releasing Ned’s arm.

“Hah,” the big man said. “What could be better than a battle won?”

“A warm beach and an open bar,” Steve said, even if the truth was almost anything save a battle lost. It wasn’t often he had to look up to meet a man’s eye.

It seemed his answer pleased the man, because he snorted in amusement. “Heard a few tales of you at Harrenhal, and something about a Ride. They call me Greatjon. Who’s this?”

“This is Be- Lord Beron Rogers,” Steve said. “No relation.”

“Cousin,” Ned said, surprise colouring his voice.

“Cousin,” Beron affirmed. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“And I you,” Ned said. “I have with me Lord Jon Umber,” he started, nodding at the big man, “Lord Roose Bolton-” a pale man with paler eyes, “-Lord Howland Reed-” a slight man that Steve tagged as dangerous, “-Lord Willam Dustin-” solid, with a thick beard and a scarred face, “-Lord Kermit Perryn-” tall but slender, with a well broken nose, “-Ser Mark Ryswell-” scarred lip, prone to smiling, “-and Ser Martyn Cassel.” Curly haired and stout. “You’ve met Lord Kyle Royce.”

Steve took in the men, meeting their gazes. They seemed like competent sorts. “Pleased to meet you all. Kyle. Nice to see you again.”

“We still talk about Gulltown at times, ah, Steve,” Kyle said, not quite stumbling over the familiar address. “No doubt you’ve more achievements from your time in the south.”

Steve coughed. “I’ve just done my part.”

A faint huff came from Beron beside him. Time on the march had only made him more familiar with Steve’s nature. “We have some stories to share.”

The words seemed to focus Ned. “You ride with Robert still? Is he near?”

“Maybe a day and a half’s march south,” Steve said.

“And the Reach?”

“Not in a position to pursue,” Steve said. His words received more raised brows than he really felt was warranted.

“Truly?” Dustin asked, glancing at Beron. “One of those stories you have, by the sounds of it.”

“A tale for later,” Ned said. “We have four more bands to hunt.”

“What’s the situation?” Steve asked, all business.

“A chevauchée of perhaps thirteen thousand men - ten thousand, now - was sent by Hightower,” Ned said. “Brandon is four days behind us with two thousand men, but we cannot wait for him.”

Steve nodded, approving. “How many do you have?”

“Some two thousand, five hundred of them mounted. With your five hundred, we equal any one group of the enemy by numbers,” Ned said.

“Are there any villages within a day’s travel of them?” Steve asked.

Kermit was the one looked to for answers. “Several,” the young man said. He was likely called handsome before his nose had suffered what looked like multiple blunt accidents. “Given where they split, I would say they know well where they are, though one is sworn to House Goodbrook, who remain loyal to the king.”

“You’ve got a plan?” Steve asked of Ned. Young as the kid was, he could still see the respect that the others had for him.

“I do,” Ned said. “Our plan was to defeat them in detail, and it remains so. We must simply do so before the day is out.”

“A gamble,” Kyle said, though his tone was considering.

Ned acknowledged him with a nod. “We must also divide our forces in doing so.”

Now there was disagreement.

“Ned, you know we’re worth any three of these soft southern pricks, but we’re already cutting it fine,” Greatjon said, frowning and apparently uncaring of the southerners amidst them.

“Two of the closest villages are not close neighbours,” Ned said. He ground his heel into the dirt in the middle of their meeting, marking three points. “If we march first to aid one,” he dragged a line from the point on its own, to one of the other two, “then the other,” before dragging his heel to the third, “our men will be exhausted come the third battle, nevermind the fourth.”

“If we are defeated, more than one village will be razed,” Bolton said, breaking his silence. His voice was soft.

“They may have riders, but they lack a true cavalry force,” Ned said. “With one thousand of our own, we have the advantage.”

“So we split in two, and each marches for a village,” Ryswell said, scuffing out the lines Ned had drawn, before making two of his own, each going from the first mark to one of the others. “That’s a two to one fight, Ned.”

“No,” Ned said. “We split the infantry, but not the cavalry. Seven hundred and fifty men to act the anvil, one thousand horse the hammer.”

“I’ve followed riskier plans,” Beron said, cocking a brow at Steve.

“If Lord Baratheon is only a day away,” Dustin said, frowning as he thought, “could we not harry the foe instead? Prevent their raiding without engaging.”

Steve broke off from the ‘who, me?’ look he was giving Beron. “I sent a rider back before we joined the fight, and another after it was won,” he said, “but even if he sends riders right away, they won’t get here until late afternoon.”

“We could harry them,” Ned said to Dustin, “though that removes the chance of an ambush, and risks them forcing a battle at a village.”

“Or they could scatter,” Steve said, thinking of another poor outcome.

“All the better to let us ride them down,” Cassel said.

“You’d never get them all, and even if you got most of the ten thousand, that’s still a lot of angry men looking to take out their frustrations on someone,” Steve said. He set his jaw. “Prisoners are going to be a handful on top of the rest of it.”

“They’ll behave if they know what’s good for them,” Umber said. He thunked one meaty fist into his palm. “We doing this, then?”

“We are,” Ned said. “Orders will be given as soon as Lord Brynden returns.”

“Brynden from the weddings?” Steve asked. He had seemed a good sort.

“Lord Tully’s brother,” Kermit said, slightly put out for some reason.

“Yeah, him,” Steve said. He might make an attempt at etiquette at times, but not on a battlefield.

“He has charge of my scouts and outriders,” Ned said, ignoring the byplay. “Few are those who can match him in such things.”

Before they could talk further, a rider approached, no messenger but an old soldier, bristled and ornery. It was not Brynden.

“Walt,” Steve said. “Any trouble?”

“None, Captain,” Walt said, giving a cursory look over the nobles and dismissing most, though his gaze slowed on Reed and Bolton. “Found one paddling downstream, but he came out after Robin poked him some.”

“Good job,” Steve said. “Have the troops rest their horses, and tell Thomas to pass on the same to the others. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

“More raiders?” he asked, interested now.

“Four groups, and all have to be dealt with today, before they can reach a village,” Steve said.

“Who’s this?” Umber interrupted.

“He’s my drill sergeant,” Steve said. Noble etiquette was one thing, but he supposed it had been a bit rude not to introduce him.

“What’s a drill sergeant then?” Umber pressed.

“They yell at soldiers when they’re doing something dumb,” Steve said.

“Ha!” Umber said. He tugged at his beard. “Surprised he has any voice left.”

“If your men have joined in the picket,” Ned said, “then Brynden should return soon.” He turned to the river, eyeing the clusters of prisoners. “We don’t have the men to watch them.”

“Going to give them the America special?” Walt asked. He earned more than one look for his temerity to speak up at such a gathering, but then his words registered with them.

“‘The America special’?” Kyle asked.

“Take their weapons, take their armour, take their food, take their shoes,” Walt said, shrugging. “Makes mischief harder.”

“But worse for it, if they reach a village,” Cassel said.

“Nobles spared a visit to a heart tree may moderate them,” Bolton said. “Should the reason for their fortune be made clear.”

Steve’s gaze sharpened, but Ned gave a considering hum.

“When we are ready to leave, I will offer them a choice,” the young lord said. “Until then, they can sit and wait.”

A soldier approached at a jog, weathered and bloody but in good cheer. He relayed details of the battle from someone called Buckets to Ned, and the group listened as he dealt with it. He did not linger long, and as he was leaving another man arrived, another ornery old soldier.

“Ned,” Brynden said. There was a splash of copper in his hair, standing out against his fading natural colour. “No sign of any riders. If we were seen, it was before the battle.”

Walt made a noise of surprise, almost disbelieving, and it drew Brynden’s eye.

“Walt,” he said, surprised, and his spine straightened in much the same way Steve’s would have if he ever met Colonel Phillips again. “You look - well.”

“Brynden,” Walt said, almost smiling. “See you’ve not gotten yourself killed yet.”

“I take it a day at a time,” Brynden said, and it had the ring of a repeated saying. His attention was caught by the newcomers. “Lord America. You have my thanks for getting my niece away from Aerys, late as they are.”

“Anyone would have done the same with the opportunity,” Steve said, before focusing on more important matters. “You know Walt?”

Brynden glanced around, as if hoping to hear a request to move on, but he was met only by the interested faces of young men. He grumbled to himself. “Walt kept me alive in the early days of the Stepstones, and taught me how to kill a man quick and quiet.”

Men took in Walt with fresh eyes, as if trying to equate the hoary soldier with someone who had known Brynden when he was young.

“You’ve learned some manners since then, at least,” Walt said, goading.

“I was always well mannered, just not to grumpy old men,” Brynden said.

“I was five and twenty you great shi-”

“You’re looking good for your age though, barely changed-”

“What’s this Blackfish horseshit I heard about, anyway? Thought you’d know better after the thing with-”

“Oh fuck off Walt,” Brynden said. “I bought your silence and you fucking know it.”

Despite their words, both men were grinning, well pleased, even if the witnesses to their reunion were a touch shell shocked.

“I see you’ve met,” Steve said.

“He was one of my father’s men,” Brynden said. “I would have been four, five and ten.”

“Lord Tully foisted him on me and mine,” Walt said. “Something about making sure he didn’t slip and knock his head getting off the ship.”

Bryden made a rude gesture, but that only amused their watchers more. Even Ned was smiling faintly.

“I will hound you for tales later, ser,” Kyle said to Walt. “I have long since exhausted my father’s.”

The words sparked a bit of mischief in Steve. “Speaking of tales, you’d have a few about Walt, wouldn’t you,” he said. “He’s always been too shy to share with us.”

“Shy-” Brynden said, shaking his head. The Tully suddenly seemed to realise that he was no longer a wet behind the ears youth, and looked to Walt with a smirk. “Is he still picking fights with people he oughtn’t to?”

“I’ve heard whispers of knives and ears,” Steve said, never one to miss an opportunity.

Brynden almost choked on his laugh. “No, again?”

Walt growled, but was ignored.

“Again-” Steve said, cutting himself off with a laugh of his own. The others were ping-ponging between them as they followed the conversation. “There’s a young man you should meet. He’d be happy to hear some stories about his grandfather here, I think.”

“Gods,” Brynden said, shaking his head. “You settled down with your Vale girl, then.”

Walt nodded, his shoulders hitching down almost imperceptibly. “I did.”

Brynden didn’t miss it. “We should drink, tonight.”

“Aye, we should,” Walt said, before looking to Steve. “I’ll pass the word to Thomas.” He turned his horse and rode off without waiting to be dismissed.

Ned took the chance to give orders of his own, dispatching his commanders to this task or that to spread the word of their task and prepare the men for the day ahead. They were quick to take to their mounts and ride off, and quickly, the young Stark was left alone with Steve and Beron.

“You had concerns?” Ned asked, preempting the foreign lord.

“I noticed that there aren’t a lot of prisoners without some House symbol on them,” Steve said, neutral.

“Mercenaries,” Ned said. “What of it?”

“I’m not used to mercenaries being all that willing to fight to the end,” Steve said. “There a reason so few ended up surrendering?”

“When a sellsword comes to raid, they are no better than bandits,” Ned said. “The sentence for banditry is death. They know this.”

“And that’s different to the men-at-arms who came to do the same?” Steve asked.

“They are sworn to their lords,” Ned said. “They will pay for their deeds, but they were driven by oaths and loyalty, not greed.”

Steve could not help but frown at the explanation, veering so close to excusing the men for following orders as it did. “What’re your plans for the captured mercenaries?”

“The same as the rest, this time,” Ned said. He had no problem meeting him in the eye. “Had they succeeded in their goal, however, I would see them all hanged.”

“But not the rest. The nobles and their soldiers.”

Ned considered it for a long moment. “If they betrayed their oaths, or overindulged in excesses, then yes. But otherwise…no. It would be for their overlord to judge them.”

Steve drummed his fingers against his thigh as he thought. His time in the Reach had left himself as the highest authority for much of it, for better and for worse. Now that the local authorities were closer to hand, he wasn’t sure how much he liked it. “Evil should be punished, no matter who it comes from,” he said, meeting Ned’s eyes. The kid held his gaze, steady, and it was clear that he had grown up some since their last meeting. “But…I acknowledge that I’m the foreigner here, and it’s not my laws that I have to follow.” Left unsaid was that when he saw something he couldn’t abide, he would do what was right, law or no law.

“I appreciate your position,” Ned said. “There are always those who forget their honour in war, but we will not be amongst them.”

“Lord America has made a name for himself as one who will go above and beyond to right a wrong, no matter those involved,” Beron offered, and it sounded like advice as much as information.

A slow nod was his response. They spoke of less serious things briefly, confirming details and other similar duties, and then both parties went their own way.

Steve’s mind lingered on his talk with Ned as they left. He knew all too well the kind of evil men at war could do, turned loose against someone they were told was an enemy. He would follow their laws - he was more likely to see a punishment as too harsh than anything - but he also knew that a law that only applied to some was no law at all. The set of his jaw grew mulish. He had been fortunate so far, in that what was just had gone hand in hand with what was lawful, but it couldn’t last forever.

When it changed, he would deal with it, same as he always did.

X

Seven hundred and fifty men marched along a narrow road, followed out of sight by one thousand cavalry. The midmorning sun shone down upon them, and a cool breeze drifted over the meadows on either side of them, carrying away the dust stirred by their passing. Every man was a fighting man, carrying their day’s water and some salted meat, and there was not a servant to be seen. They would meet up with the camp followers after their victory, a brief respite before marching on to more battles, but for now, they marched.

Not for much longer. Gossip had passed through the column earlier of an enemy scout spied and let to flee. Their quarry had turned to wait for them, thinking themselves the hunter, but they would be the anvil which they were broken upon. The big man at the front of the column sang songs in a language few spoke, guttural and growling yet melodic all the same. It was enough to inspire those behind him and instil a hint of fear in the foe as they drew near, but that was what happened when you put a big mountain clansman covered in blue battle boasts in charge of such a force.

When the rebels marched around a bend to see the loyalist force waiting for them atop a rise, they did not stutter and slow as had been expected. Calm orders had them forming a wedge, confusing the loyalists. It was not until they saw a second, larger dust cloud that they began to understand.

For a moment, they had hope. They could hold strong in the face of a few hundred horse - but then they glimpsed another cloud, and another, approaching from all sides. Those at the front thought they had it the worst, watching the big painted clansman with the buckets on his blue shield advance, claymore held easily in one hand. Those at the rear thought they had it the worst, harried by sling and javelin and helpless to avoid it. Those on the right thought they had it the worst, seeing the direwolves of the Starks bearing down upon them to cut and carve away at their lines. Those on the left thought they had it the worst, and they were right, watching as a giant in thick plate bore down on them atop a white horse, likewise armoured. Not content to carve away at their ranks, this man rode right at them, hammer drawn back and ready to send a man into the embrace of his gods.

When it was over, the raiders were shattered in form and in spirit, having surrendered in droves after seeing one man too many launched into the air via hammer. To make a daring raid intending to draw the enemy’s attention was one thing, to be confronted by what seemed like the Warrior come to express his disapproval in person was quite another. They were stripped of sword, shield, and shoe, then given a choice. Their surviving leaders chose wisely, and by their word bound the rest.

But the day was not over, not nearly, and both foot and horse were heading out as soon as their few dead and wounded were seen to. The infantry north-west, for the camp that would be waiting for them, established by their servants and camp followers, while the cavalry rode north, making for their next target. If all went to plan, they would arrive shortly before the other half of the infantry made contact.

All did not go to plan, but nor did disaster strike. Direwolf banners arrived to see rebel forces facing down raiding loyalists in a meadow, a number of banners planted between the two groups. Before them, the enormous figure of Greatjon Umber was battering a pair of knights around, watched over by the roaring giant on his banner, and cheered on by the roars of his men. A ripple went through the loyalists as they saw the cavalry and realised they had been tricked. Few expected guile from a Northman, but then, the Greatjon had a very particular type of cunning. At the sound of northern horns, he backhanded a knight in a tabard of blue on gold, sending him reeling, before smashing the hilt of his sword into the helm of a knight bearing a white flail on a red background, putting a sudden end to the extended duel.

Even knowing they were tricked, and seeing their chosen champions defeated, the loyalists still chose to fight. It went much the same, and by midday the second of the raiding groups was defeated and defanged. The foot marched to the waiting camp, the horse walking easily beside them and their riders often dismounting to ease their burden. They would rest for a time at the camp, passing the hottest part of the day, and then the entire force would march on their next foe as one. There were only two more on the loose, and many a man dared to hope as they realised they had defeated more than half of those dispatched by Hightower to raid and raze already. Beyond that, the next two were not so far apart as to force them to split their forces again - they could bring their full strength to bear on each. Surely, the worst was already done?

They should have known better.

Mid-afternoon came, and with it came an outrider bearing urgent news. At some point they had been seen, and the remaining foes had quickmarched to join together. Five thousand men awaited them, their backs to a copse of trees. Outnumbered two to one, the rebels had a decision to make.

“If they’re offering battle to us, they can’t raid,” Dustin said, staring over at the foe’s lines. “We could hang around, but wait them out.”

“Our men are tired,” Kyle said. “I would not bet on them maintaining distance. Not without the cavalry engaging.”

The commanders were gathered in a line to the side of their infantry, looking over the field of battle. There was a very slight incline favouring their troops, but the trees reduced their options.

“Difficult,” Beron said. “Risky.”

“Aye,” Ryswell said. “What if we refused battle, but harried them should they try to march out? The spare mounts are rested…somewhat.”

“Could Lord Umber delay them again?” Reed asked, tapping a finger on the prongs of his spear. “Tomorrow would suit us better.”

“Depends on when they knew we were coming,” Umber said, scowling. “If they saw my little show, they’ll know we want to delay the moment we offer.”

“Doesn’t have to be an attempt to delay,” Steve said. “They won’t fight well without their leaders.”

“A Whent won’t share a duel, and once they lose one would the others accept another?” Perryn asked. Witnessing Steve lead a charge had cleared up much for the young Riverlord as to why no one was too bothered by the foreign lord’s lack of niceties.

With the black and yellow of House Whent in pride of place, there was no doubting who was in command, but there were other banners on display as well.

“I wasn’t thinking I’d give them a choice,” Steve said, only half joking. By the laughter of the others, at least some were considering its merits.

“It will have to be today,” Ned said finally. “We have the supply advantage; they won’t allow us to delay.”

“And they say we’re the rude ones,” Umber grumbled.

“I got my horn from a Whent,” Steve said, rapping his thumb against the instrument tied to his hip. “If I open up with it when I challenge them, do you think they’d accept?”

“They’d be hard pressed not to,” Cassel said. “Very prickly about things like that, these southern knights.”

“Then I’ll toot my horn, walk over there, have a chat with Whent, draw out the fight for a minute or so, then challenge someone else,” Steve said. “I reckon I can get a good half hour out of it to give the men a chance to sit and rest.”

“If they hold their position, we might be better off fighting afoot,” Beron said, considering the field. “We Stormlands knights, that is.”

“That would stiffen our line,” Ned said, judging the idea and finding it pleasing.

“There are also those amongst us who have experience fighting at Steve’s side,” Beron said. “Such a group, targeting their centre or flank, could sunder their lines.”

“Hang on,” Umber said, fixing Beron with a gimlet eye and only half serious, “if anyone is going to crack them open, it’ll be the biggest, strongest, meanest Northman here - me.”

“Pass the word, cousin,” Ned said, almost smiling at Greatjon’s jape. “And ready the men you speak of. I have an idea.” He inclined his head to Steve. “As you will, Steve.”

Word was passed, and preparations were made as Ned detailed his plan, Steve suggesting a change to take best advantage of his own company and their slings, calling Walt over to give orders. Before long all the wheels were in motion, and he made his way forward into the field, Ren at his back with his banner. He took a breath to sound his dire horn - but then he paused. He could hear something, words carried by the wind at the faintest edge of his hearing.

“I might not be the —---- —,

But the sword in my hand is sharp and cold,”

He stilled, listening, straining to hear. A called order got in the way, and he frowned.

“Gonna fight for my land gonna —- me a —---,

Gonna pile up their bodies and raise me a flagon,”

It was growing closer, coming from the south, from the left side of the battlefield, but again something got in the way, a whickering horse this time.

“----- picked a fight that he knows he can’t win,

Gonna cut off his head and throw it to the wind,”

His sudden stop as he cocked his head had drawn attention, and the men nearest to him were wondering - loudly - what he was doing. He raised an arm and glanced back, his look politely suggesting that they shut their mouths.

“You feared his fury you wanted his head,

Big Bobby B gonna knock you dead,”

It was close enough now that even other men could hear it, but they could still not make it out. Not like Steve could. He began to grin. He had wondered what Yorick and Willem had been doing all those nights they hadn’t been with their men.

“I might not be the Thunder God,

But we fight with the fury of the men of old.”

Black stag banners appeared to the south, a wave of cavalry cresting a hill as a thousand throats sang together. Steve raised his horn and blew, its dirge call putting the boot into the sudden morale drop of the loyalists.

He was pretty sure Whent would accept his challenge, but maybe now he would offer his surrender, too.