A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

The day of the melee, Steve woke with anticipation in his gut and an eagerness to do some recreational violence to someone. He rose smoothly, and began a routine of stretches to limber himself up.

For so long, fighting had been about stopping the world from falling apart, and then once it did, holding its remains together. He couldn’t remember the last time he had entered some kind of martial competition purely for the fun of it, if he had ever done so at all. The gold prize at the end certainly didn’t hurt matters.

When he emerged from his room, his companions were waiting for him, dressed to impress, as was a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages, and a hunk of toasted bread, drizzled with melted cheese. A tall tankard of milk sat on the table beside it. Dodger sat nearby, black eyes fixed unerringly on the plate despite the grease he was licking from his chops.

“Good morning, Steve,” Naerys said with a smile, pulling the chair before the plate out for him. “How are you feeling?”

“Spoiled, to be honest,” Steve said, taking the seat. “You guys sure you have enough?” Their own plates were somewhat more modest than his.

“We don’t all eat enough to put a lord out of his castle,” Robin said.

“Maybe if you did you’d have the arms to draw that bow your dad helped make for me,” Steve said, tucking in to his breakfast with a will.

“I don’t think anyone besides you could draw that monster,” Robin grumbled.

“Are ya gonna give them toffs a beating?” Toby asked. “I bet ye could get away wit’ all kinds o’ vi-o-lence.”

“Well, it’s mounted combat, and I’ll keep that in mind, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun,” Steve said. “It’s a competition in a tournament, after all.”

“Vi-o-lence it is then,” Toby said with a satisfied nod.

“I’m sure Steve is going to treat his opponents with the respect they deserve,” Kedry said to Toby.

“Oh yeah,” Steve said, thinking of a few likely opponents in particular. “Exactly as they deserve.”

“We weren’t sure what arms and armour you had decided on, so we readied them all,” Naerys said, finishing her breakfast and putting the cutlery aside. “I saw to the armour from your homeland, while Kedry saw to your hammer and helm.”

“I had a word wit’ Fury,” Toby said, excitement getting the better of him. “Y’know, as much as ye can wit’ horses.”

“I even prepped your bow, in case you wanted to carry it,” Robin said. “Dunno how much cause you’d have to use it in the melee though.”

Steve gave in to Dodger’s begging eyes and slipped him a rasher of bacon, considering his options for the day.

“I’ll take the hammer, the shield, and my suit, but I’ll wear the helm we picked up in King’s Landing,” Steve said. “Think I’ll leave the bow; I wouldn’t want it to get knocked around if I’m not going to use it.”

“Fair,” Robin said. “I think you’d be more likely to knock around whatever you hit with it, though.”

Steve finished up his breakfast, mopping up the fat and sauce with the bread and licking his fingers clean. “So are you guys coming to watch, or do you have other things to do?”

Naerys rolled her eyes at him. “We will watch as best we can, although the melee is to take place over an expansive part of the land beyond the castle walls.”

“I heard talk of a watching party on the walls themselves,” Kedry offered. “We may be able to spectate from there.”

“I suppose my armour will stick out from the crowd,” Steve said.

“Many knights wear favours given to them by a lady,” Naerys said, “so they might be distinguished more easily. “You should be wary of accepting any offered,” she warned. “It’s considered a tacit acceptance of invitation to court.”

“Thanks Naerys,” Steve said. “I’d have put my foot in it who knows how many times if not for you.”

“Truly, you are in my debt,” Naerys said wryly, looking around the tent and then to the fine dress she wore.

Rising from the table, Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I guess it’s time.”

“We’ll wait for you outside,” Kedry said. “Your equipment is in the spare room.”

His companions departed, giving him space, and Steve made for his arms and armour. In the room they kept their equipment in, he found them, laid out neatly on the floor mat. His suit had been cleaned, each nook and cranny picked free of grime earned on the road, until it was good enough to pass parade inspection. His hammer gleamed, his shield shone, and he could see his reflection in the crown of his helm. The wings upon it were white to the helm’s grey, and were close to matching his own symbol. He ran a hand over the star on the suit’s chest, remembering, but only for a moment. He shucked his clothes, and began to suit up.

A few minutes later, Steve emerged from the tent, ready and willing. His shield was strapped to his arm, and his hammer rested easily upon his shoulder. The helm completed the picture, sitting proudly on his head.

Naerys sighed. “I should have put more coin on him.”

“Toby and Robin have gone to ready Fury for you,” Kedry said. “We will meet them at the southern gate with the rest of the competitors.

Steve nodded, and led the way through the tent village, Naerys and Kedry falling in behind him. Heads turned and eyes fixed upon them as they passed, Steve’s stature and garb speaking a thousand words. Naerys’ beauty and the quiet danger with which Kedry moved, knife visible at his back, only added to the scene.

They passed by other knights emerging from their tents, but all hesitated and waited for them to pass, such was their bearing. The crowded lanes seemed to open before them, and soon they were at the southern gate, near to the stables. A large crowd of several hundred armoured knights and their horses milled about, some more eye catching than others. Steve saw gem studded armour, painted breastplates, even a set of antlers on a helm. A high whistle drew Steve’s attention, where he saw Toby standing upon Fury’s saddle, waving to him. They approached, Toby hopping down as they reached them.

“This is where we have to split,” Robin said, handing the reins over. “Competitors and officials only through the gate.”

Steve took the reins, stroking Fury’s neck. The horse snorted and stamped a hoof, perhaps having picked up on the mood. He looked eager. “Thanks for all your help,” Steve said. “I’ll take it from here.”

“I have no doubt,” Kedry said. “Seven be with you.”

“Trees an’ Stone protect ye,” Toby said.

“Good luck,” Robin said.

Naerys said nothing, just giving him a quick but crushing hug before stepping away.

Steve watched as his companions departed, heading for one of the stairwells that led to the top of the huge walls. Then he turned and focused, heading for the red and black banner with the three headed dragon on it. The melee awaited.

X

Out of the mass of fighters, seven groups emerged as each man made for the banner of the kingdom he had signed up for. For Steve that was the Crownlands, the kingdom of the ruling house, and incidentally, the Houses who had stepped on his toes in trying to have him disqualified. He was content to ignore them, and after a few ugly looks, they appeared content to do the same.

Slowly, the swarm of knights filtered through the huge gates that led out of the castle grounds, each knight conversing shortly with a maester that checked a list and gestured them through. The scent of horse, sweat, and horse sweat was already rising, and Steve wasn’t looking forward to spending much more time in line. Finally, it was his turn to head through the gate.

“Name?” the maester asked. It wasn’t the man he had spoken to the previous day, the likely Hayford, but Steve wasn’t sure what that might mean. He had a somewhat wispy beard, and age spots on his cheeks, but his frame lacked any frailty.

“Steve Rogers, Lord America,” he said.

The maester quickly scanned the top of the parchment he carried, before making a mark. “Very good, through you go.”

As the knights before him had, Steve mounted his horse and trotted through, following the stretched out line of knights heading out into the fields. There the groups separated, each one heading for a different section of the marked out field. The castle walls seemed to mark one edge, while flagpoles ran off into the distance marking the others. One crossed a river and disappeared over a hill, while the closer edge vanished into a copse of trees.

As Fury walked, Steve found himself grinning, eager to be started. He didn’t think he was the only one, as the knights behind him began to hurry their steeds onwards, turning the stretched out line into a small crowd, and soon, they were at their starting area, mustered in a group of nearly a hundred men at the base of the castle wall. Stretching his neck, Steve could just make out spectators leaning over the parapets to get a better look at them.

Several long minutes passed, and the anticipation built as they waited for the other groups to reach their starting zones. He could overhear conversations between friends, discussing tactics and where they ought to ride first.

A long horn sounded, a warning, and Steve could feel the nervous tension building around him. The mass of knights began to spread out, angling for space to avoid being caught in the opening crush. Strangely, the small crowd of those closest to him remained right where they were. Few were speaking to their fellows, and many already had their hands on their weapons, unlike the mob at large. Steve felt his grin slipping into a frown as he began to get a familiar feeling.

“Before we get started,” Steve said, voice breaking the tense silence, “does anyone want to go stand somewhere else?”

A shorter, sharper horn sounded over the walls, and there was a pause. Then there was a rasp of a sword sliding from its sheath, and the man to Steve’s right swung for his head.

Steve lashed out with his shield, denting the man’s chest plate before the swing could connect. In the same motion, his hammer swung free from his shoulder, colliding with the shoulder of a man swinging a mace at him from behind. The once orderly crowd descended into a scrum, as a group of knights all sought to get at one man.

That one man was having none of it. Shield and hammer swung and crushed, knocking aside blows meant to maim and returning them with threefold force. Steve found himself with a moment of breathing room, as each man closest to him suddenly had to deal with a shattered shoulder, broken ribs, or crippled limbs. The other knights in on the plot strove to get past them or let them pass, and Steve swung widely with the full reach of his hammer to help them on their way, slowing only to ensure he missed their horses.

Steve lunged forward in his saddle to poke a man with his hammer who had thought himself out of reach, knocking the knight clear from his horse. Already the greater crowd of knights were leaving the scrum behind, keeping out of the mess that they hadn’t seen start and didn’t fancy getting involved in, leaving Steve in the middle of a group of twenty or so who were all facing inwards towards him. The press began to tell, threatening to swallow him and pin him in place.

Heels tapped Fury’s flanks, and the huge white horse surged forward, sixteen hands and nearly seven hundred kilos of trained warbeast powering through the scrum. His eyes rolled wildly and he snapped at the hand of a knight who tried to seize his bridle, breaking fingers with a toss of his head and letting out a screaming whinny.

Even as he cleared it, Steve found himself using his shield more than his hammer amidst the scrum, the hunk of metal proving too awkward to swing easily in the tight quarters. The blunt edge of his shield found itself catching blow after blow and returning them with interest; one big man who must have fancied himself Steve’s equal sought to catch it upon his own shield, only for it to shatter under the strike, opening him up for a precise follow up that shattered the bridge of his nose and knocked him off his horse. Releasing his hammer for a split second, Steve backhanded a man who tried to take advantage of the opening, catching the haft just below the head before it could finish falling.

He was almost free, and only two knights were positioned to block his way, guiding their mounts to cut him off. With an ease that belied its weight, Steve drove his hammer into the gut of one with a straight thrust, and popped the other out of his saddle with a bash of his shield. The first man was left to gasp without air, and the second had his foot caught in his stirrup, shrieking as his horse charged away, dragging him through the dirt.

With a last burst of speed, Fury carried Steve free of the melee, putting some distance between them. Nudging his mount with one knee, Steve turned to face his attackers, watching as they reset themselves and fanned out to approach. Several looked almost shell shocked, while others were spooked by the pained cries of the half dozen or so men on the ground. Finally having room to move, Steve gave his hammer a few experimental swings, feeling and hearing it thrum through the air. He spread his arms, daring his foes to attack him.

One knight forced his way to the front, lifting the front of his helm to reveal a familiar face. It was Hayford, and he sneered, pointing his sword towards him and saying something to his fellows.

Around them, the other members of the Crownlands contingent had gained some distance, still unwilling to interfere but engaged by the spectacle. Rather than ride forth to seek out competitors from the other kingdoms, they settled in to watch.

“I’d say no hard feelings,” Steve called out, “but my Ma taught me never to tell a lie.”

“A shame the whore never taught you your place before she died of the pox,” Hayford shouted back.

Steve’s face went flat, and he nudged Fury’s flanks. Hayford smirked, like he’d baited him into something foolish, and rode forward to meet him, the others falling in behind him. As they drew near, Captain America rose in his saddle, drawing his hammer back for a telegraphed blow.

There was a beat, and Hayford twisted in his saddle to dodge the attack, sword angled to take Steve in the gut. Another beat, and before the man could comprehend what had happened, he was being lifted from his saddle by the force of the hammerblow, air driven from his lungs as he felt his plate crumple and his ribs break. He hadn’t even seen the hammer move, and now he was watching the sky as he sailed off his horse to land in the dirt. The horse of the man behind him trampled his shoulder, and he tried to scream in agony, but he could barely get enough air to breathe.

The ranks of the men who had charged towards him were only two deep, and Steve was through them in an instant, another three men besides Hayford knocked from their horses. One had aimed to skewer Fury, and Steve had repaid him with a shattered elbow, while the other two he had merely unhorsed, one with his hammer, the other with his boot. He turned Fury to face the nine men who were left. They didn’t look too confident.

“This is the part where you run away,” Steve called out.

One man spat to the side and turned his horse, ignoring the bitter words from the others as he rode away. After a brief argument, two more joined him, leaving six knights to face Steve. They shouted after their perhaps wiser fellows, but the sting was taken out of it by the pained shriek that Hayford had managed to let out, laying on the ground between them and Steve. They gave up on the few who had left, and after a moment, broke into a haphazard charge.

“Well, I warned them,” Steve said to himself. He met their charge, hammer feeling more at home in his hand. Holding it by the very end of its haft, he had nearly six feet of reach, and he abused his greater range mercilessly, knocking two knights from their saddle in a single sweeping blow. One was caught in the chest by the hammer head, and the other clotheslined across the neck by its handle. Both were sent flying, landing in a pained jumble of steel. Again, thinking him distracted, a knight attempted to strike his shield side, only to be bashed from the saddle absently.

The last three knights were almost an afterthought of inhumanly quick blows, the final attempting to wheel his horse around and flee, only for Steve to hook him about the shoulder with his hammer and pull him off his mount. He landed with a clatter, and Steve sat his hammer on the man’s chest.

“Do you yield?” Steve said.

The man held arms up weakly. It was Longwaters. “I yield.”

Steve stared sternly down at him. “Next time, think twice about your actions. When a dame says no, she means no.”

A clatter of hooves drew Steve’s attention before Longwaters could answer, and he looked back towards the walls to see a trio of unarmoured men in Whent colours approaching. One of them was the maester that had waved Steve through the castle gate.

“Lord America,” the maester said, disapproval in his voice. “Can you explain to me what happened here?”

“They ambushed me,” Steve said. He glanced at the groaning and broken bodies. “I defeated them.”

“You acted in self defence?” the maester asked.

“They took a swing at me as soon as that second horn went off,” Steve said. He noticed many of the other Crownlands knights leaving now that the immediate fight was done, seeking their own victories. “Do I need to stick around and answer questions, or can I get started with the proper melee?”

The maester’s lips twitched. “After that performance, I believe I would face protests if I were to have you ejected.” More seriously, he continued, “do you know what spurred this assault?”

“I have beef with Hayford, Stokeworth, and Longwaters,” Steve said. “Not sure where Stokeworth got to, but this is Longwaters, and Hayford is the one moaning over there,” he said, indicating the two downed men. “I guess they felt they needed some backup.”

The two other men broke off, heading for the downed knights who seemed most wounded, or were at least the loudest, and began administering aid.

“You may face some contention in the aftermath, but the Gods ever favour the victors,” the maester said. “I will question the knights who participated in this unchivalrous deed to determine the truth of the matter.”

“So I’m free to go?” Steve asked.

“You are free to continue,” the man said, smoothing his beard. “Might I suggest engaging with participants from the other kingdoms, for the remainder of the event?”

“I’ll do my best,” Steve said. “Good luck with...all that,” he said, gesturing to the fallen. He turned Fury, and began to ride deeper into the melee grounds, leaving the rising moans of pain behind him.

X

High up on the castle walls, a group of four looked down on the figure in blue, and the small crowd of broken figures he left behind.

“Remind me, what was the wager you made, Naerys?” Kedry asked.

“That Steve would personally down twenty men,” she said, gloomy.

“Why’re ye so upset then?” Toby asked. “He’s already done wit’ that, yeah?”

Naerys let out a great sigh.

Robin answered for her. “She only put one gold piece down.”

Awkwardly, Kedry patted Naerys on the shoulder. “Well, there’s always next time, yes?”

“Not at three to one odds there isn’t.”

X

Through the woods Steve rode, eyes peeled for the sign of a foe to fight. In the distance, he could hear the faint clamour of steel on steel, but around him, all was quiet. He followed the path he was on, eyeing the hoofprints in the dirt as he went. In time, the path diverged, splitting in two, and Steve paused, eyeing his options. He took the road less traveled, hoping to keep away from the busier sections of the field and find some more ‘civilised’ duels.

His choice was rewarded not ten minutes later, as he rounded a bend that took him out of the woods, the path cutting across an open grassy field. On the other side, amidst the flowers, rode two knights, each holding a lance pointed to the sky. A pennant fluttered on each tip, but Steve couldn’t make out their details.

The knights stopped as they saw Steve emerge from the shadowed woods atop his white horse, hammer on his shoulder. They conferred for a moment, before one moved forward and saluted him with his lance.

Steve raised his hammer in turn, before nudging Fury into a trot. His opponent mirrored him, lowering their lance, and Steve set himself in his saddle as best he could. The trot became a canter, then a charge, and his world narrowed down to the tip of the lance that was aimed unerringly at the star on his shield.

When the impact came, Steve hardly felt it, even as the lance shattered into fragments. He swung his hammer around and the knight leaned out of its path, but it was only a feint, and the man was unprepared for the shield bash that popped him out of his saddle. The knight shed his shield and dropped the remains of his lance as he soared, tucking into a roll as he hit the ground with a great clatter.

Circling his horse, Steve trotted towards the fallen man, leaning down to speak with him. “How’s your head there son?”

The knight let out a groan. “I’ve had harder knocks, but not many,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting the shield.”

“Nobody expects the shield,” Steve said, mouth twitching as he remembered a movie night with friends, long ago.

“My brother will, if you’ll deign to face him,” the knight said, sitting up slowly. “I am Owen Fossoway, and he is Raymun.”

Steve looked across the field to the other knight. His horse was stamping in place, apparently eager to charge, but he made no move to attack.

“Ah, what the hell,” Steve said. He raised his hammer in salute, and received one in turn. “You good to clear the way?”

“I believe so,” Owen said, rising slowly. He accepted the hand Steve offered to steady him, and whistled for his horse. Hauling himself back into his saddle, he twitched his reins, and trotted clear of the path.

Retreating back towards the woods a short way, Steve prepared himself to receive another lance charge. Seeing him ready, Raymun Fossoway nudged his horse into action, the eager beast breaking into a canter.

Matching his pace, Steve set himself once more, and once more found a lance tip aimed right for the star on his broken shield. He brought his hammer out wide and readied his shield to see if the same trick would work twice.

It didn’t. Wise to his ploy, Raymun released his lance the instant it broke and leaned almost completely out of his saddle, keeping himself mounted by the crook of his leg. His sword rang clear from its sheath, and his horse turned swiftly to pursue Steve who was still attempting to stop fully. Steve was forced to bend over backwards to catch the first strike, rather than let it strike his shoulder. Fury turned, allowing him to sit up and lash out with his hammer, but Raymun’s own horse skipped to the side to carry his rider clear of the blow.

Raymun approached for another blow, sword held high. He swayed in his saddle, seeming more centaur than man as his horse moved with him, making it difficult to tell where the blow would come from.

Difficult for a normal man, but not for Steve. He caught the blow upon his shield, and used its broken edge to trap the blade and twist it free from its owner’s hand. Stabbing out with his hammer, Steve drove it into Raymun’s gut, popping him from his saddle. Like his brother, he shed his weapon and shield as he fell, landing on the flat of his arms with a gasp.

“Seven above,” Raymun swore as he heaved for breath. “What the hell is that hammer?”

“It was made by a guy called Mott in King’s Landing,” Steve said, reaching down to offer a hand. “You alright?”

“I’ll live,” Raymun said, accepting the arm up. He pulled himself to his feet, then leaned on his knees. “Maybe.”

Owen rode over, having recovered somewhat. “Not as good a showing as I had hoped, but such is life.”

“Five foes apiece is plenty respectable,” Raymun argued. He whistled for his horse, and the horse came, nosing him. “What was your name, ser?”

“Steve Rogers, Lord America,” Steve said. “Although I can’t claim the title ser.”

“Father won’t let us hear the end of this,” Owen said. “How many men have you unhorsed?”

“Just over twenty now,” Steve said. “Twenty three maybe?”

Both brothers gaped at him.

“We’ve hardly started,” Raymun said.

“I got lucky,” Steve said. “Bunch of fellas on my own team jumped me at the start.”

“Yes, lucky,” Owen said. “You’re used to fighting on foot, aren’t you?”

“You could say that,” Steve said.

“You’re right, it’s clear to see,” Raymun agreed. “I suppose that’s why you’re here for the melee, not the joust?”

Steve nodded. He hadn’t been so arrogant as to think he could take on the best in a discipline he had never practiced before. “Something like that. Thanks for the bouts.”

“Best of luck to you,” Owen said, even as his brother mounted up.

“We’ll see you to discuss the ransom of our arms and armour after the event,” Raymun added. “If you qualify, we’ll put coin on you in the final!”

Steve watched as the brothers left down the path he had come from, headed towards the castle, but only for a moment. The melee was still ongoing.

X

The Fossoway brothers weren’t the only small group Steve happened upon, but they were probably the most chivalrous about it. One group of three simply charged the moment they saw him only to be quickly dispatched, while another duo saluted him and waited for his response, but then also attacked as a pair. He met the odd solo knight, all eager to test themselves against him, save one. Those who faced him fell, and the one who declined to challenge him did so after taking one glance at the star on his chest.

Now and then, Steve caught a glimpse of a maester or other official seeing to a wounded knight or taking note of some fight or another, speaking to the defeated before moving on.

After skirting around a particularly spirited cluster of a dozen knights going at it, he came to a river, one that flowed into the Gods Eye lake. It looked calm enough, but Steve’s experienced eye could see the treachery of its bed. He pulled lightly on Fury’s reigns, intending to find a better point to cross, when the sound of cursing reached his ears.

A short way up the river, a knight stood, inspecting his horse. The grey animal was soaked almost to its withers, and it was holding a foreleg off the ground gingerly. It shook its head in distress as its rider gently probed at it.

“Hello there,” Steve called, announcing his presence, still a short distance away.

The man’s head shot up, hand going to his sword hilt. “Ho there,” he replied, relaxing minutely once he saw Steve sitting comfortably on his horse.

“You alright there?” Steve asked, nudging Fury closer in a slow walk.

“I have had better days,” the knight said. “The river was more treacherous than I had assumed.”

“That’s a crying shame,” Steve said. He was close enough to speak normally now. “How’d you go before now?”

“Seven knights felled,” he said with some pride. “And your, ser?”

Steve thought for a moment. “Twenty nine.”

The knight gaped openly for a moment. “You are...most accomplished.”

“I’ve had some luck today,” Steve said.

“And my day is over,” the man said, disgust in his tone. He paused, considering. “I am Ser Markus of Strongsong. My horse may be injured, but will you do me the honour of fighting me on foot?”

“I’m Steve Rogers, Lord America,” Steve said, dismounting. He was starting to get tired of that phrase. It sounded like something Loki would have said while imitating him.

“I thank you,” Markus said, stepping away from his horse. He flipped the visor of his helm up, revealing blue eyes and a weathered face, and gave him a nod before flicking the visor back down.

Steve set his hammer on the ground and gave a more traditional - for him - salute, wishing that he’d thought to wear the harness that Tobho Mott had provided with the weapon. “First blood, knock down?”

“To the yield, I think,” Markus said, hefting his shield and drawing his sword.

“Alright,” Steve said, and then they began to circle each other.

The riverside was quiet for a moment, save for the clank of metal from Markus’ armour and the slide of Steve’s boots across the dirt, each man looking for an opening. The tip of Markus’ blade lowered, as if he was conserving his strength at the cost of a slight opening, but Steve recognised the move from his spars with Barristan and refused to take the bait. He drew his hammer back, making clear where the blow could fall, and Markus was forced to abandon his gambit.

“I’ve heard of you, Lord America,” Markus said, rue in his voice. “They said you’re possessed of great skill, but are new to our ways.”

“I’m a quick learner,” Steve said, “and Barristan pulled that move on me in a spar.” He returned his hammer to its rest on his shoulder.

“Barristan the Bold?” Markus said. He lunged forward, down to one knee as he drove his blade point towards Steve’s hip.

Steve spun in place to avoid it, using the momentum of his turn to sweep out with his hammer, but Markus was already rolling to the side in a display of agility for a man in full plate.

“I think there’s only the one,” Steve said. He took a step forward, leading with his shield, and Markus backstepped. Another step forward, another backstep. He swung his hammer, aiming for his foe’s shield, but rather than try to weather the blow Markus ducked under it, before darting forward in a crouch to slash at Steve’s side.

He found only Steve’s shield with a screech of metal, darting away before Steve could follow up. “I’ve sparred with Lord Baratheon several times,” he said, as they began circling again. “He’s a monster with his hammer just as you are, but in a different way.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked. “How so?” He punched towards Markus with his shield, and the knight was forced to take the blow on his own, unexpected as it was.

“He’s been trained in its use, for one,” Markus said, attempting a shield bash of his own. “But he doesn’t quite have your speed.”

Steve took the shield bash without budging, and pushed back with a flex, sending Markus stumbling. “You Westerosi knights seem to be able to tell a lot about a fellow from the way he fights.”

“It is our way,” Markus said, a bit short of breath, as he tried to gain some distance. “Not sure if he has your strength, either, which before today I would have doubted.”

Steve swung his hammer lazily, keeping just close enough to Markus to be threatening. “I think I’ll take that as a compliment, on balance,” he said. He stabbed his hammer forward like a spear, the move unexpected for its absurdity. The spike on its head sailed over Markus’ shoulder as the man moved to avoid it, but it had never been meant to land. Twisting the hammer so that the curved spike on its back pointed down, Steve hooked his foe in the shoulder and yanked him forward, meeting him with his shield. Such was the force of the blow that Markus was bodily spun, his legs continuing on as his torso was stopped in place.

Markus hit the ground with a clatter and a gasp, weapon still in hand but making no move to defend himself.

“Do you yield?” Steve asked, standing over him.

“Seven fuckin’ hells,” Markus forced out. “Yes, yield.”

The whinny of a horse drew Steve’s attention before he could check Markus for injuries or offer him a hand up, and he saw five knights round a bend in the river downstream. Upon seeing them in turn, they kicked their horses into a gallop, heading towards them with weapons drawn.

“Think they just want a quick chat?” Steve asked the still recovering Markus.

Markus grumbled wordlessly, holding his gut and seemingly happy to stay where he lay on the ground.

“Yeah, I don’t like the look of them either,” Steve said as he jumped back into Fury’s saddle. “Give the neighbourhood a bad reputation.” He tapped his heels to Fury’s flanks, his mount tossing his head eagerly.

The knights were halfway to him when Steve accepted their charge, and their bearing changed, the flat line folding back into an arrow, a single man at its point. Steve frowned as he realised their game - had he waited and done nothing, they likely would have challenged him one at a time, but having ridden out to meet them, they could claim he was the one to challenge them - and what knight would patiently await for five men to approach at a gallop with weapons drawn?

“Punks are on my lawn,” Steve grumbled, joking to himself. If nothing else, at least this melee was giving him plenty of practice at fighting groups of mounted men.

The man at the head of the arrow aimed right for him, while those behind him prepared to catch him as he tried to avoid their charge - so he didn’t. Fearlessly, Fury met their charge with his own, powerful muscles surging into their formation almost head on, crashing into the gap between the leader and the man to the right.

Steve shield bashed the leader from his horse, a move he was becoming more and more fond of, and clotheslined the two knights on the right from their saddles with his arm and hammer, held just below its head. Horses screamed as they were shouldered aside by Fury’s greater strength and bulk.

Two knights remained, and their charge petered out as they attempted to recover, but Steve didn’t give them the chance. One man was dragged off his horse with the hook on the back of his hammer, while the other was hauled off by his shield. They joined their compatriots in the dirt with a clatter. The helmet of one came off, chin strap torn, revealing a young and pimpled face.

“Kids these days,” Steve said, shaking his head. “No care for their gear.”

As he gave the downed men time to recover, Markus approached, helm back where he fell, holding his side carefully but apparently without serious injury. “There’s always some in the melee for the glory and money rather than the honour of it,” he said, frowning. His gaze turned to the horses milling about without riders. “I had heard you slew the Smiling Knight with a single punch to the throat, but I admit I had doubted. I see now that I was wrong to do so.”

“Stories grow in the telling,” Steve said. “But yeah, that’s pretty much what happened.”

Markus snorted a laugh. “I will ransom my horse and armour from you of course, should you choose to offer it so.”

Steve opened his mouth to agree, but paused. The Fossoway brothers had mentioned the same, and he’d had a vague understanding that defeated knights would offer to buy back their horse and gear from the one to defeat them, but he couldn’t say he fully understood the matter. He’d have to check with Naerys and Kedry for the details, at the least.

“I’d be happy to ransom your equipment back to you,” Steve said. “Although with your horse being injured I can’t see myself charging you full price for him.”

“Most generous,” Markus said with a quirk of his lips. “And these young men?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with their horses,” Steve said. “They can pay full price.”

“Might teach them some manners,” Markus said. “Maybe teach them that weight of numbers isn’t everything, at least.”

As the knights regathered themselves however, Steve’s thoughts were on another group of knights that had gotten on his shit list. He’d have to make sure he wasn’t making some social faux pas, but he didn’t think he’d be offering Hayford and Longwaters their armour back. Maybe he wouldn’t go so far as to gift it to the first hedge knight that crossed his path, but it seemed that it’d only be proper for him to send his seneschal to collect it. He was sure Naerys would enjoy that.

“Pox ridden whore’s arse,” one knight groaned, the first to get back to his feet. “No wonder you rode right at us.”

“Couldn’t have hit us any harder, could you,” another added, the leader this time. He was holding the arm that had taken the better part of Steve’s shield bash, grimacing.

“We could always take another run at each other and find out,” Steve said, humouring them.

“I think we’ll pass,” the leader said. “You lot alright?” Grumbled and mutterings answered him.

“Are we going to have any more trouble?” Steve asked. They didn’t seem to be taking their loss all that poorly, but his experience with the knights of this land had been a bit of a mixed bag so far.

“We’ll present ourselves to the mercy of the maesters, don’t worry,” the leader said. “You’ll have our ransom, if you want it.”

The group of five wasted no more time in mounting up and departed in short order, the sound of friendly mockery between themselves left in their wake. Steve made his way over to Markus, the man inspecting his horse and feeding it an apple.

“Thirty five knights unhorsed for you now,” Markus said.

“That’s a decent score, then?” Steve asked.

Markus barked a laugh. “You could say that. You’ll have eyes on you for sure after this, for good and ill.”

“If anyone wants to take a swing at me, I’ll be happy to oblige,” Steve said.

“I’m sure,” Markus said. “Just know that there are those who will use your foreign nature to deny you certain courtesies.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Steve said. Not like that hadn’t happened already.

“Best of luck to you, Lord America,” Markus said. “I’ll watch you in the finals.”

Steve raised a hand in salute before turning Fury away, leaving Markus to slowly walk his mount back to the castle. The day was marching on, but he had some time to add to his score yet.

X x X

When the sun began to orange and dip lower in the sky, a long horn call rang across the fields, signalling to those still fighting that the melee was over. After a long day of skirmishing, the victors had been determined, and it was time to return to the castle.

When Steve heard the horn call, he was in the middle of sweeping the feet from under a Stormland knight. He stopped on a dime, leaving the knight held awkwardly off balance by his grip on the man’s arm.

“I guess that’s that then,” Steve said, setting the man straight and dusting him off.

“Wait, what?” the knight asked.

“That was the horn to end the melee, right?”

The man blinked, his helm having been knocked off earlier when Steve had kicked him from his horse. “I - I didn’t hear it.”

Behind him, three of his fellows were picking themselves up from the dirt from where Steve had planted them earlier. “You’d win at dice against the Stranger himself, Patrick,” one complained.

“You don’t mean to claim your victory against me?” the now named Patrick asked, still befuddled.

“Melee’s over,” Steve said with a shrug. “And you were still fighting.”

“Huh. Yeah, I was,” he said, a grin starting to form on his face. He glanced quickly at the star on Steve’s chest. “How many did you get?”

Steve whistled for Fury, and the faithful horse came from where Steve had jumped off him. “You would have been my seventieth.” Most knights had asked some variation of the question after he had unhorsed them, and had been a mix of impressed and reassured.

“Nicely done,” Patrick said, awed. “Do you suppose you’ll win the finals?”

“Anything is possible son,” Steve said, stepping back up into Fury’s saddle. “Just don’t go putting money on it that you don’t have.” He twitched the reins, and off Fury went, making for the castle and relief after a good day’s work. He could use a bite to eat. He sniffed. And a shower.

Fury whuffed, as if in agreement.

“Alrighty there pal,” Steve said as he rode. “You’re no flower blossom yourself.”

As they drew closer to the castle, more and more knights appeared, a few in higher spirits than others, some battered, all weary. A loose procession formed as they closed in on the gatehouse of Harrenhal, before which a group of maesters and event officials were conferring.

There was some milling about outside the gates as those who had fought waited on the results, and Steve took the chance to dismount to spare his tired horse the burden. He loosened the straps on his shield, looking around. Most of the remaining knights were clustered in the same small groups they had likely fought in all day, but some stood alone like himself. Barristan was one, the man’s armour scuffed but his bearing composed, looking for all the world like he’d simply been out for a stroll. He caught Steve’s eye and gave him a nod, a challenging glint in his eye. Then he saw the hammer resting on Steve’s shoulder and the glint changed to a look of comical disgust. Steve gave him a smirk, but said nothing.

“My lords, good sers, if you would proceed through the gates and gather before the sept, we shall announce the victors,” an official called out, stirring the crowd.

They began to move, filtering through the wide gates and into the outer ward of the castle. A sizeable crowd awaited them, apparently the retinues of the participants and other spectators, although he couldn’t spy Naerys or the others. They were mostly clustered around the well between the armoury and the tavern, leaving an open space before the sept. In front of the sept was a small elevated stage, empty at first, but soon occupied by three of the maesters who had been conferring outside. One of them was the man who had taken Steve’s name at the start of the day, and then questioned him over the ambush.

“My Lords, My Ladies, we have determined the victors of the melee on this day,” one maester boomed, a barrel chested man with a voice that wouldn’t be out of place on a parade ground. “By dint of knights unhorsed and great valour, the following men have proven themselves worthy of fighting in the final seven before His Grace and the Gods, five days hence.”

A hush fell over the crowd, and Steve was bizarrely reminded of a reality tv show that Nat had forced him to sit through once. He smothered an inappropriate snort, even as the announcer allowed the silence to grow and tension to build.

“Walder of Winterfell, Giant of the North!”

A huge man, taller than Steve by a good foot, raised a fist as he was slapped on the back by his fellows, and cheers rose from some parts of the crowd. One of the loudest cheers came from a man at his side, one that Steve saw bore a strong resemblance to Eddard.

“Lord Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell!”

The man who had just been cheering his companion raised his arms with a roar, accepting the adulation of his peers.

“Lord Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone!”

A stately lord of an age with Barristan raised his sheathed sword to the sky, hilt first. His armour was bronze, inscribed with strange runes, and again came enthusiastic cheers.

“Lord Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of Storm’s End!”

Baratheon raised his hammer high with a booming cry of, ‘Ours is the Fury!’, and the crowd rewarded him with their response.

“Lord Jon Connington, of Griffin’s Roost!”

A young man with fiery red hair and a beard to match raised a mailed fist, and many of those who had cheered for Baratheon cheered for him too.

“The Bold, Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard!”

The entire crowd swelled with cheers this time, undivided by whatever regional lines there were. Barristan held his head high, raising one hand in salute.

“Steve Rogers, Lord America of the United Kingdoms of America!”

The cheers he received weren’t quite what Barristan had commanded, but he thought he did alright. He raised his shield in response, and the crowd seemed to like that.

“Your victors, Lords and Ladies, all of them chivalrous and true!” the maester called, bringing the ceremony to an end.

The crowds, knights and spectators both, descended upon the winners, intent on congratulating and questioning them in equal measure. Steve was not spared, the experience reminding him of one time he’d been caught in a paparazzi mob. Fury snorted and stamped, not pleased by the press of bodies, but not yet making his displeasure known with bites or kicks.

“Is it true you slew the Smiling Knight with a single punch?”

“Did you come to the Seven Kingdoms to test yourself against us?”

“Is your shield made of Valyrian Steel?”

“Did you cripple the lords who laid hands on your mistress?”

Steve did his best to answer the questions he was asked, and set right those who clearly had the wrong idea. As the questions continued, he wondered if being a popular knight was Westeros’ version of being a rockstar.

“Did you seduce Ashara Dayne and her handmaidens all at the same time?”

He turned a disappointed stare on the one who had asked, the weight of his look silencing the cluster around him. “Son, you shouldn’t go repeating every gutter talk rumour you hear. It only makes you sound like a fool.”

The man who asked cringed back, and Steve took his chance to escape.

“I appreciate your questions and your enthusiasm,” he said in his ‘thanks for buying all these war bonds but I want to go home now’ voice. “I look forward to seeing you at the melee final later.”

As the group around him drew back, Steve made his way free, clapping a few of the friendlier ones on the shoulder as he went. In short order he was free, Fury following with only the barest tug on his reins. He couldn’t see his companions anywhere, so he headed for the southern side of the sept to wait for them, where he’d be visible. It was on the way to the stables anyway, and Fury had earned a rub down and some oats.

Some minutes passed as he waited, and while some passerby seemed to wish to speak with him, they respected his closed off bearing as he retrieved an apple from a belt pouch and fed pieces of it to his horse.

Not all, however. One man, well dressed in the style of nobility and with a gaudy emerald ring on his left pinky, approached Steve with a smile.

“Well met, Lord America,” he said. “Congratulations on your performance.”

“Thank you…?” Steve said.

“Was it the tournaments that brought you to our lands, I wonder?” the man continued, missing or ignoring the invitation to introduce himself.

“I can’t say they were,” Steve said.

“You’ve certainly made a good showing for yourself regardless,” he said. Fair brown hair was brushed from his eyes as he spoke. “Can we expect similar showings from your companions?”

“One can hope,” Steve said, noncommittally.

“I’m a bit of a gambling man myself,” he said, making a gesture that drew the eye to the emerald on his hand. “Do you intend to ride in the joust?”

“No, that’s not for me,” Steve said.

“A shame,” he said. “I’m always on the lookout for a chance to make a profit. How have you been enjoying the Seven Kingdoms so far?” he asked, changing topic abruptly.

“They’re different from my home, but they have their qualities,” Steve said. He wasn’t sure if he should be annoyed or wary.

“I hear you’ve made some boon companions here,” he said, still smiling. “Good friends can be hard to find. How did you meet them?”

“On the road, as I traveled,” Steve said. Blonde hair caught his eye, emerging from the crowd that still lingered between the armoury and the tavern. “Here they are now, actually. Excuse me.”

“Of course,” the man said with a small bow. “Best of luck to you in the finals.”

Steve turned to meet his companions, putting the man from his mind. Some people were just nosy.

“Steve that were amazing,” Toby said in a rush, running ahead of Naerys, Kedry, and Robin as they reached him. “Ye slapped them knights around sommat fierce, even when they jumped ye, it was like smack with the hammer and then the shield and ye kicked that one off his horse and -”

“Toby enjoyed the spectacle,” Kedry said, placing a hand over his ward’s mouth. “Your reaction to the ambush was impressive.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Naerys said. “It was one thing seeing you fight the guards at Sharp Point, but that…”

“I can see why you’re so confident about winning the whole thing,” Robin said. “Still, there are some big names in the final.”

Toby’s jaw moved, and Kedry pulled a disgusted face, removing his hand and wiping it on the boy’s shoulder. “How’s Fury? He do alright? I’m gonna take him to his stable and give ‘im a rubdown.”

“He did well,” Steve said. “I’d say he was a trained warhorse, the way he was acting out in the field today.”

“Yeah, he’s a good ‘un,” Toby said absently, already inspecting Fury. Obediently, the horse lifted a hoof for him when tapped. “Had some fun of his own out there. I reckon, anyway.”

“What have we planned for the rest of the day?” Naerys asked. “Tomorrow is the first day of the joust, and Kedry is due to compete, but the day isn’t over yet.”

“Did any of you recognise the man I was talking to before you came over?” Steve asked.

“He wasn’t familiar,” Naerys said.

“Wasn’t wearing any sigils,” Robin said with a shrug.

“I did not get the chance to see his face,” Kedry apologised.

“Probably nothing,” Steve said. “Toby, you’ve got Fury under control?””

“Yep,” the kid said, barely sparing him a glance.

“I’m going to have a chat with some of the other finalists,” Steve said. “What do you guys want to do?”

“Archery practice,” Robin said. “It’s only four days until the competition,” he added gloomily.

“I will escort Toby,” Kedry said.

“Actually, would you mind taking my stuff if you’re going with Fury?” Steve asked Kedry.

“Of course,” Kedry said, already reaching out for it.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Steve said, handing over his hammer, his shield, and his helm. He rolled his shoulders, enjoying the lack of weight.

“I will accompany you, Steve,” Naerys said. “No doubt some of the knights you unhorsed are already seeking you to ransom their equipment.” There was a look in her eye that reminded him of Nat.

The group parted ways, each bent on their own task.

“About that,” Steve said, as they began to look for the other finalists. “I had some thoughts about whose gear to ransom.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Everyone save Hayford and Longwaters,” Steve said. “Stokeworth wasn’t there, or at least I didn’t find him.”

The look in Naerys’ eye only became more apparent as a smirk grew on her face. “I think that will send the right message.”

“I was going to give their armour away to a decent hedge knight, but I don’t want to draw anyone else into our little squabble,” Steve said.

“Stokeworth didn’t even face you, Longwaters attempted to flee after their ambush failed, and Hayford will be bedridden for the better part of six months and will likely never hold a weapon easily again,” Naerys said. “This is after they set a score of knights on you under false pretences, and the tale of how it came to be was spread by Lady Dayne, close confident to the Princess. I think it is more than a ‘little squabble’.”

“You think I should take pity on them then?” Steve asked, brow raised.

“I think you should sell their armour piece by piece, each one to a different blacksmith,” Naerys said. “For a low price, even.”

Steve laughed. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that.”

“Their behaviour earned it,” Naerys said.

“You’re not wrong,” Steve said. “What goes around comes around.”

“Indeed,” Naerys said. “I think I see Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon ahead.”

Steve looked to where she indicated, and sure enough, the men he recognised as Baratheon and Brandon Stark were just deeper into the crowd, joking with each other. Also present was Eddard, apparently suffering under their attentions.

“Let’s go say hello then,” Steve said.

Eddard was the one who noticed them first, alerting his companions to their approach with the air of a man grateful for the distraction. “Lord America, it is good to see you again.”

“You too, Eddard,” Steve said.

“Brother, Robert, this is Steve Rogers, Lord America,” Eddard said. “Lord America, this is my brother Brandon Stark, and my foster brother Robert Baratheon.”

“Call me Steve,” Steve said, offering his hand and receiving a clasp from all three in turn.

“Then you must call me Ned,” Ned said. His dark grey eyes were solemn, but he wore a small smile.

“Ned,” Steve agreed. “This is Naerys, my seneschal.”

Naerys gave a smiling curtsey. “My lords.”

“My lady,” the men answered, each bowing slightly. Brandon and Robert both took a moment to admire her and Steve decided he’d have to keep an eye on them.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, America,” Baratheon said. He was a tall man, taller than Steve even, and he held an antlered helm under one arm. His armour was of fine make, clear even through the grime of the day.

“All good, I hope,” Steve said.

“Enough to stoke envy within me,” Baratheon said. “Stumbling into the purging of the Kingswood Brotherhood just in time to slay the Smiling Knight and fight beside Barristan Selmy? It’s a boyhood dream come true.” His good mood was infectious.

“Slaying the Smiling Knight with a single punch is one thing,” Brandon said. “But it’s another deed that I’m more impressed by.” His voice was sly with the tone of a brother about to put a sibling to the sword, and his light grey eyes were lit by mischief.

“What might that be?” Steve asked, playing along.

“Convincing my little brother,” and here Brandon used his height to put his arm around an unwilling Ned, “to not only approach one of the greatest beauties in the realm, but to ask her to dance.”

Ned sighed, clearly longsuffering. “They have not relented since the feast,” he said. “It was just a dance. An extended dance,” he added, glaring at the two men, but without heat. “I hoped they might compose themselves in front of - new friends.”

“It could be worse,” Steve said, unable to help himself.

Ned raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Think of how bad they’re going to be after your second dance.”

Baratheon guffawed, slapping Ned on the back. “All that time in the Vale spent chastising me Ned, and the problem was we just hadn’t found your type.”

“That’s if there is a second dance,” Ned said, trying to keep a sober expression on his face.

“Something tells me there will be,” Steve said. “Ashara was pretty pleased with your performance.”

“You did speak with Lady Ashara then?” Ned asked. “I had heard rumours, but I dismissed them.”

“I don’t know what rumours you heard, but she asked to speak with me yesterday,” Steve said. He hesitated for a brief moment, trying to decide whether to put Ned deeper in it, before a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bucky urged him on. “You were the main topic of conversation.”

Ned closed his eyes with a pained expression, while Baratheon and Brandon looked like all their Christmases had come early.

“Something tells me you won’t have trouble persuading the lady to accept another dance,” Steve concluded.

“I must tell Lyanna,” Brandon said suddenly. “She’ll love to hear this; romance has been on her mind ever si- lately,” he said, cutting himself off with a quick glance at Baratheon.

“Aye,” Baratheon said, eyes going distant as he smiled. “Lyanna is their sister, and my betrothed,” he said to Steve and Naerys, “and this tournament is our first meeting in the flesh, though I feel like I know her already from all of Ned’s stories.”

“I must ask, why did you prompt me to ask Lady Ashara to dance?” Ned asked.

“Never leave a dame waiting on a dance,” Steve said.

“Leave no woman undanced with,” Brandon said. “It has the ring of wisdom to it.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Something like that.”

“If you don’t ask her to dance again, I suspect she’ll be very cross with you,” Naerys said, speaking up for the first time. She swallowed when all eyes fell on her, but continued on. “If your attention was unwanted, she would not have pressed Steve about you.”

“I shall ask her,” Ned said, suddenly determined. “There is another feast tonight; I will see her then.”

“Perhaps there will be two weddings in Riverrun, come the year’s turn,” Brandon said, “instead of only one. Should I write father?”

“You should mind your own bloody business,” Ned grumbled, but in good cheer.

“Enough about Ned’s romance,” Baratheon said. “We’re to face each other in the melee to come, and I am eager to take your measure, America.”

“I watched you in the training yard the other day, and from what I saw I can say the same,” Steve said. “But if you’re that eager to take my measure...how many men did you unhorse today?”

“Forty two, myself,” Brandon said, cutting in. “Robert?”

“Hah!” Baratheon said. “Forty eight.”

Steve smiled to himself, staying quiet, even as the others waited for him to answer.

“Well?” Baratheon asked.

“Well what?” Steve said.

“How many men did you unhorse today, Steve?” Naerys asked, pro forma.

“I’m glad you asked Naerys,” Steve said. “I unhorsed sixty nine men today.”

“Sixt - fuck off, or I’m a lizard’s uncle,” Baratheon said. “Sixty nine men?”

Steve smirked. He’d missed being able to shoot the shit with people who weren’t taught about him in history class. “In fairness, twenty of them jumped me right as the horn blew.”

“That might be the highest count I’ve ever heard from a melee,” Brandon said, thinking it over. “But then, this is a singular tourney, and Northerners don’t often compete.”

“You’d best prepare yourself for the final, America,” Baratheon said, a wide grin settling on his face. “Because the only count that matters there is who the last man standing is.”

“There’s only one man with a hammer that I’m wary of,” Steve said, “and I don’t think you’re him.”

“This kind of talk is thirsty work,” Brandon said. “Shall we make for the tavern?”

Robert’s eyes lit up, and he was clearly eager, but he looked to Ned.

“I could use a drink after unhorsing sixty nine men,” Steve said. “Naerys?”

“You’re going to have knights coming up to you to offer their ransom every other minute in that tavern,” Naerys said. “I might as well come along and see to my duty.”

“I will come along for a time, but I must go to the feast this eve,” Ned said. He ignored the jeers of his friend and brother with what dignity he could.

Steve looked around, and saw a young boy munching on a hunk of bread, staring around with wide eyes. “Hey there, kid. Want to earn a coin?” He plucked a silver coin from his belt and held it up between two fingers.

The kid’s eyes zeroed in on the silver, and he nodded.

“My tent is the large one closest to the old ruined sept; go there and wait for a man with brown hair or a boy with blond, and tell them that Steve and Naerys are at the tavern,” Steve said. “Can you do that?”

“Yes m’lud,” the kid said, eyes still on the coin.

“Off you go then,” Steve said, handing the silver piece over.

“You don’t think he’ll just run off with it?” Brandon asked without judgement.

“Treat people with respect and they’ll return the favour more often than not,” Steve said. “And if not, it’s only a silver coin.”

Brandon grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and then they headed for the tavern.

They were not the only fighters who had been drawn in by the promise of food and drink after the day, and the tavern was near full. Still, they were able to secure a table large enough for the five of them in short order, and five tankards of ale appeared quickly after.

As stories were swapped and tales told, the afternoon began to pass quickly. Brandon proved not to lack confidence in himself, and Baratheon had a bearing to himself that Steve thought would have seen him get along well with Thor. Ned was quieter, but there were moments he demonstrated why he got along so well with Baratheon.

Still in his armour, it wasn’t long before Steve was recognised, and men began to approach him to ask about ransoming their armour. Naerys took over, questioning them in a businesslike fashion over the quality of their armour and all manner of sundries, even up to the age and temperament of their horses when the knight in question talked down to her or was otherwise rude. She did a brisk trade, taking note of all who approached to pay, a growing pouch of gold set on the table and utterly safe in the presence of a Lord Paramount, the heir to another, and the man who won it by force of arms in the first place.

By the time the last rays of the sun were setting through the tavern windows, Baratheon was happily buzzed, Brandon was on his way there, and the rest were still sober as judges. The melee had been fought and ‘won’, new friendships forged, and Steve himself was richer by some six hundred gold pieces.

A good haul by any measure, and there was still yet more to be won.

X

It was later, after they had parted ways with the others and returned to their tent, and Steve had said goodnight to Naerys, that he found his thoughts straying to Mjolnir once more. His new hammer had served him well in the melee that day, but a weapon forged for the Asgardians it was not. He sat down on his bedroll, listening to the rustle of the wind against the tent walls, and reached out.

Like the last time he had tried, the connection came to him slowly, raggedly. This time, rather than tug on it gently, he took it firmly ‘in hand’, and tried to draw it into and towards himself.

Last time, it had felt like something had been blocking the hammer from answering. This time it was something else, and a troubling shadow passed over Steve’s thoughts. Instead of a blockage, this time there was resistance. Steve grasped the hammer firmer still, but the resistance increased to match. He bent more of his will upon the connection he could feel - and it wasn’t a flight of fancy, he could feel Mjolnir - but so too did whatever was preventing him from summoning it. For every mote of effort he expended, he was matched perfectly.

There was a brief flash of pain on the palm of his right hand, as if he’d briefly grasped a burning hot haft, and his focus was lost. His connection to Mjolnir had faded from his mind, for now at least, and with it the sensation of a mental tug of war.

Steve laid down on his bedroll, mind churning as he considered what it might mean. His sleep was troubled.