Grey clouds overhead threatened to drizzle on the two men that watched and observed that day. The supply depot they were inspecting was the first example of a camp that had actually met Steve’s standards. He was almost impressed. A short distance from where the Blueburn began after it formed from a confluence of rivers and streams, a rectangular layout had been arranged on flat ground, perhaps one hundred yards long on one side, seventy on another. Palisade walls had been built, and outside them ditches had been dug and mounds erected. Wooden spikes bristled on the mounds and in the ditches. Each corner of the camp had a wooden watchtower, and from a distance, there looked to be one sentry in each at all times. There was one entry and exit per side, though the one that led to the river was the widest, and only a short distance from the makeshift docks that even now had a pair of low sitting oared rivercraft at them. Without elevated ground higher than the low hill they had climbed to view it from, it was difficult to make out the goings on within it, but they could see temporary dwellings had been built along with semi permanent canvas structures that seemed to be warehouses for supplies. It was impossible to tell how many enemies there were defending it, but Steve had a feeling there were at least a few. All told, it was a perfectly serviceable layout to amass and distribute supplies.

“You almost done?” Walt asked. “That patrol is about due around again.”

“Almost,” Steve said, just putting the final touches on a rough sketch of the depot layout.

They had been cautious in their approach, and it had paid off. Walt and the other veterans had seen them avoid the patrol routes of the camp, aided by the trails said patrols had worn into the land. Like the force they had routed and scattered to the winds the previous week, there was no expectation of a hostile force. Steve smiled faintly as he finished his work, satisfied in the same way a carpenter was after a particularly well fit joint. It seemed that word of his coming had yet to reach the right ears.

“Let’s get back to our camp,” Steve said, rolling up his parchment. “We’ve got planning to do.”

X

The pair of them slipped away from the depot without being seen, and within the hour were back at the camp the men had made in a dip between two hills. With sentries hunkered atop them, they would see any approaching force long before being seen themselves. Things were more cramped than usual, given their desire to stay hidden, but they had managed. Tents were erected against the poor weather, and a tarp had been suspended over a portion of the horse pen. As Steve and Walt dismounted, Toby was there to take their horses, and the threatened drizzle became rain in truth.

“Any trouble?” Steve asked the kid, handing over Brooklyn’s reins.

“Nup,” Toby said. His pants were cut off below the knee, ragged, but he wore a quality canvas cloak with a hood to keep the worst of the weather off. Rain droplets hit with a soft splat and rolled down it. “Some of them like the rain, some hate it, but I got that tarp up for ‘em.”

“Means he badgered us till we did it for him,” a nearby soldier said, getting a blanket over a horse’s back. His name was Ric, a stocky Riverlander with black hair who hadn’t thought twice after getting Steve’s offer. “Gave us grief about the work, too.”

“That’s cos I’m in charge,” Toby said. “The boss.”

“Uh huh,” Ric said, rolling his eyes, though he didn’t gainsay him, focusing on his job.

“Where are your shoes, boss?” Steve asked, eyeing Toby’s bare, muddy feet.

“Naerys said I didn’t hafta wear them,” Toby said immediately.

“Did she?” Steve asked.

Toby nodded quickly. “Honest.”

Walt didn’t bother trying to hold back his amused snort, and Toby stuck out his tongue at him.

There was an amused glitter in Walt’s eye, but Steve spoke up before the old man could do more than open his mouth. “Have the new mounts finished settling in?”

“Yeah, they’ve all sorted themselves,” Toby reported. He handed the reins of their mounts off to Ric, and the man led them away. “One herd now. Redbloom and Fury stepped up, Quicksilver too.”

“That’s good,” Steve said. “Well done.” He knew there had been some concern over integrating so many new horses without conflict, but Toby had managed it with apparent ease. Every member of the company now had a mount and a spare.

“Weren’t nothin’,” Toby said, kicking at the ground.

“Remember to wash your feet once you’re done,” Steve said.

“Yeah, Naerys said,” Toby grumbled. A whinny caught his attention and he turned. The rain was making some of the horses frisky, while others were trying to crowd under the cover. “Bye.”

“That boy,” Walt said, more amused than anything.

Steve shook his head, a slight smile on his face. “Come on, let’s get out of this weather.”

“Youth,” Walt said, derisive tone belied by the look in his eye. “I’m going to see what I can pick up from that glaive monster.” He glanced over to where Keladry was leading a small group of mostly knights and the odd man-at-arms through more advanced polearm forms.

They split, Walt heading for the spot on the slope of one hill that Keladry had claimed, and Steve making for one of the two larger tents in the camp. One was the main tent they had picked up all the way back in King’s Landing, but the other was the doctor’s tent, doing double duty as Corivo’s workspace and sleeping area.

Steve ducked in, out of the rain, and looked around. It was divided by a cloth wall, the larger area for the doctor’s work arranged around a long table with the odd bloodstain on it, and another smaller but cleaner table against the left wall, several cloth wrapped books on it. The second area, to the right, was Corivo’s personal area and given the emptiness of the first, he assumed he was there.

“Corivo?” Steve called. “You there?”

“Yes, one moment,” Corivo’s voice answered, and there was the sound of rustling. He emerged through a flap in the wall, book in hand with a thumb marking his place. “Has someone hurt themselves again?”

“No - again?” Steve asked.

“Foolishness in training and a squashed nose,” Corivo said. In the time since Gulltown, he had grown out his moustache, and it was beginning to curl up at the sides. “Not broken, thankfully. Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to a pair of folding wood and cloth stools by the smaller table.

“I thought we were past that,” Steve said, pulling out the stool and taking a seat. The slow patter of rain against the canvas of the tent was a steady backdrop.

“An accident, though that didn’t stop your second in command from expressing his disapproval,” Corivo said, taking the second seat, his back to the operating table. He made a face. “Nor did it prevent the extra repetitions for the group that came after.”

“Fair,” Steve said, not even bothering to try and conceal his smirk.

Corivo waved a finger at him. “One day you will meet someone in finer form than yourself, and I will laugh.”

“If you say so,” Steve said.

“What does bring you here, if not that?” Corivo asked. He set his book on his knee, still with his thumb holding his place.

“I wanted to check in on the state of the wounded,” Steve said. “See how they’re recovering.”

“Ah,” Corivo said, gaze going distant as he considered. “Superficial injuries have healed, and what I feared was a fracture was not. Ser Arland should refrain from any infantry charges, but his knee is otherwise fit to fight. The concussion, I am still concerned, and he should remain in the guard squad for another week. Two, I would prefer.”

Steve nodded slowly. The fight at the Sestor holdfast had not been without consequence, even if they had gotten off more lightly than anyone would have gambled. “Solid work,” he said.

“My thanks,” the olive skinned man said, inclining his head. “More so for your information on the long term consequences of head injuries. It is not a subject that I have found great knowledge on.”

“I promised to share what I know,” Steve said, shrugging.

Corivo gave him a considering look for a moment. “You know how much this knowledge is worth.”

“I do.”

“I’m not sure what I expected,” Corivo said, lips quirking in a slight smile.

“You’ll save lives,” Steve said. “My men’s lives. Seems a fair deal.”

Corivo tapped his book against his knee. “What do you intend when the injuries build up?” he asked. “I have seen objective raids like this, and I have seen long term incursions, but never both from a small force.”

"If we get to the stage that we can't safely operate as a fighting force while protecting the wounded, we'll retreat and link up with incoming Baratheon forces," Steve said. “The company has greater value than the degree of disruption to the Reach that would come from spending it against them.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to adhere to that reasoning,” Corivo said.

“I don’t buy into that kind of calculus, but I’ve had to talk around those that do,” Steve said. “Part of that value is the value of my soldiers as people.”

“The campaign has been illuminating,” Corivo said, nodding. “I had thought it to be the Westerosi manner, but that is not quite true, no?”

Steve shook his head. “I’ve adapted my strategy for the campaign, but no, it’s not. If we link up with a larger army, we’ll see how they wage war.”

Corivo considered that for a moment. “I have been told that Westerosi wars are like that of the Century of Blood.”

“The century of what?” Steve asked, brows shooting up.

“A chaotic period of upheaval and power struggles that suffused much of Essos,” Corivo said. “We could speak for many days on the topic, and it is not a pleasant discussion.”

“I’m going to have to sit down in a library for a few weeks after this is all sorted,” Steve said. Between Naerys and Keladry there were few things that couldn’t be explained to him, but he’d pay a lot for an encyclopaedia like the ones SHIELD had given him after waking up.

“You paramour will be pleased,” Corivo said, his smile showing white teeth, “though you may find yourself spending more than a few weeks.”

Steve huffed a laugh. “If we take out a large enough force, I could seize the paychest and buy her a library of her own. I can’t see myself prying her out of one otherwise.”

“She was most disappointed that my books were all written in High Valyrian,” Corivo said. “But - paychests, you mean to imply that the Westerosi operate as the free companies do?”

“You mean your mercenary companies?” Steve asked, thinking. “I’m not actually sure. I think most soldiers here serve as a form of tax, or service owed. I might be making assumptions from home.”

“The grizzled one, Walt, would know,” Corivo said.

“He would,” Steve said, but his attention had been caught by something else. “Do you mean that mercenary companies in Essos run around with all their wealth?” He couldn’t say the idea didn’t intrigue him. It offered…possibilities.

“To a point,” Corivo said. “The Golden Company is renowned for its members wearing their wealth on their person, but any company above a certain…” he gestured, searching for a word, “capability, will keep their treasures in a bank.” He gave Steve a look. “Why?”

“I have plans, and they need money,” Steve said, like he wasn’t talking about the destruction of the slave industry in Essos. “I’ll probably end up fighting a few of those free companies at some point. Seems like a good idea to take their measure.”

“As you say,” Corivo said. “Though I imagine your service in this conflict will earn you a pretty coin.”

“Oh, I’m not contracted,” Steve said, waving a hand.

“I’m sorry?” Corivo said, blinking.

“This is…I guess you’d call it a personal matter,” Steve said. “I’m friends with some of the people at the heart of the matter.”

The doctor regarded him for a long moment. “It becomes easier and easier to see how you inspire such loyalty,” Corivo said.

Steve shrugged. He’d been accused of being willing to take a bullet for strangers in the street before, but he knew his baggage, and he wasn’t about to bring it up now. “You mentioned serving with a free company during your apprenticeship?”

“Yes, the Windblown,” Corivo said. “It was a new company when I joined my master there, but they have grown, and…”

The rain continued to drizzle softly against the canvas. They spoke for a while more, and Steve learned about life with a free company in Essos. Parts were interesting, more informative, and some quietly infuriating. It would be some time before the information could be put to use, but he remembered it all the same. He left Corivo to his own pursuits and emerged to see Keladry’s training session coming to an end, the men walking down the slope of the hill. One man slipped on the wet grass to much laughter and jeering, though it was without malice. Mid-morning was starting to be left behind, and soon he would have to get a move on with the planning.

The grey clouds overhead made him pause, however, and he stared up at them for a long moment. Rain fell on his face, but he ignored it, his right hand twitching. It had been some time - months - since he had last tried to call Mjolnir. Not since a stormy evening in Harrenhal.

For a moment, he considered waiting, or going elsewhere first, but he highly doubted the hammer was close enough that it would arrive in his hand before he could cease his call. He was just going to see if it was possible. There was a flash of phantom pain in his hand, but he pushed past it. He needed to try.

Steve reached out, not physically, seeking the connection. For a long moment, there was nothing. No response, no thread of connection coming to him. But then -

Pain, sheer agony shot up his arm, and the only reason he didn’t scream was because his muscles had locked tight in response. He could smell cooked pork, and the memory of a metal coffin flashed through his mind, but then it was driven out by the torment.

- and he pushed the connection away, willing it to be gone. A heartbeat later, the anguish stopped, and he stumbled, jaw clenched near hard enough to crack his teeth. The scent of cooked pork did not go away, and the pain lingered.

“Ser, are you alright?”

Steve fought to master himself, looking up. It was Ser Henry, fresh from Keladry’s training, and he was looking at him in concern. He managed a jerky nod. “I’m fine,” he forced out. “Thanks.”

Henry was dubious, but nodded slowly, obeying the unspoken command and continuing on his way. He looked back once before moving around the corner of the healing tent and out of sight.

When he was gone, Steve looked down at his hand, slowly turning it over to see his palm.

The affected skin was a mix of black and red, and yellow blisters were already swelling up. A path had been burnt across his palm, a thick line, and amidst the damage he could make out a familiar pattern.

Slowly, Steve turned to reenter Corivo’s tent. His mind was full of worries, but they were distant, second to the immediate moment, and he felt disconnected. He would need a salve for this.

X

What had once been their travelling tent had become the commander’s tent, and the focal point of the camp. Steve and Naerys still had their ‘rooms’ within it, but for the most part it had been given over to a planning room. Unlike in Corivo’s workspace, a table was a luxury and not a need, so they had not spent precious baggage space on it. Instead, those involved in the planning of the assault on the supply depot were gathered in a circle, some sitting on folding stools, others standing. All were looking down on the sketch that Steve had made of the depot earlier, the breaking clouds allowing enough sun through to illuminate it. The wind was still present, blowing against canvas walls.

“Not as bad as that Gee Cee camp on Bloodstone,” Erik said, breaking the silence. His hands were in his pockets as he looked down at the map over Walt’s shoulder.

Walt gave a disgusted grunt, rubbing at the old arrow scar on his cheek. “Better not be,” he said, shifting on his stool.

“If we’re not thorough, a rider could escape easily,” Keladry said, across from him, her eyes fixed on the sketch. She still wore her navy and white gambeson, its bulk obscuring the shape of her torso, and her arms were crossed as she thought.

“Patrols will be the issue,” Walt said. “They’ll rabbit if they come back to see it taken.”

“We could begin by ambushing the patrols?” Henry suggested, also standing behind Walt. “Take them out, then close in on the depot.” Like Keladry, he still wore his gambeson after the training session, though perhaps for different reasons.

“Unless they’re fools, they’ll have rotating patrols,” Yorick said, scratching at his blond fringe. He stood behind Keladry, and he looked at the others in the tent as he spoke. “They would be wise to our coming.”

The last two squad leaders kept their counsel to themselves, not yet comfortable with voicing their thoughts on strategy before knights and old soldiers. Humfrey and Osric stood shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the tent flap, listening.

“I’d rather not assault the depot outright,” Steve said, sitting across from them, speaking at last. His hand was throbbing, but he ignored it, as well as the urge to fiddle with the bandage wrapped around it. “Danger aside, you’re all right about the patrols.” They still had time before an organised response could be brought to bear against them. Not for nothing had they seized every horse and left their prisoners without shoes or excess supplies to trudge to the nearest holdfast. Even so, a horseman riding hard carrying word of a force striking at supply points would hasten that response greatly.

“So we cannot take them without alerting the camp, and we cannot gamble on catching them afterwards,” Henry said.

“We could,” Steve said, “but I don’t want to. Gamble, I mean.”

Small smiles were shared at his blunt words.

“What if we snuck in at night?” Robin asked. He stood at Steve’s back, and he swallowed at the sudden attention on him. “Do they still patrol at night?”

“Not this lot,” Walt said, considering. “Not with what we’ve seen of them. They feel safe.”

“Sentries, and maybe a group sleeping near their horses,” Erik opined.

“These buildings,” Keladry said, pointing at two long and narrow buildings by the west wall. “Are they the barracks?” They stood out from the other structures within, being some of the few made of wood rather than canvas.

“Likely,” Steve said. “With how long this camp has been here, they won’t have the men sleeping under canvas still.” His hand was starting to itch, and he flexed it, trying to gain relief with the bandage. A few eyes flicked to it, but nothing was said.

“If we gained entry at night, we could bottle those sleeping within,” Keladry said.

“I’ll be Lord of the Eyrie before the company can sneak up on them,” Yorick said, though he didn’t sound completely against the idea.

“It’d be a small force to lead, and the rest to follow,” Erik said, scratching at his fading ginger stubble.

Walt made a noise of agreement. “Bulk of them in the barracks, one sentry in each tower, whatever ready response they have, and call it…one pair patrolling the camp.”

“That’s a lot of guesswork,” Steve said, non-judgemental.

“I’m old and scrappy, so it’s good guesswork,” Walt said.

“You’re not even fifty,” Steve said.

“I said old, not ancient,” Walt said.

“I woulda said ancient,” Erik said, needling his old comrade.

“You woulda said a lot of things, it’s why you’re missing that tooth,” Walt said.

“I volunteer my squad for the force,” Humfrey said, speaking up for the first time.

There was a pause as the others took a moment to refocus on the matter at hand.

“Fu- balls,” Erik said. He wasn’t alone in his disappointment, but some thought more swiftly than others.

“I volunteer mine for a mounted response, in case of runners,” Henry said quickly.

“One squad won’t be enough to secure the camp,” Yorick said. “My squad and I could take the opposite side to Humfrey’s, then secure the docks.”

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, raising his left hand, smiling. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Are we all agreed on a night time sneak attack?”

There was only a moment of further thought before he was answered by nods.

“Then here’s how we’ll do it…”

X

The moon was bright that night, but the night sky was streaked with clouds, leaving the landscape of rolling hills and fields dappled in shadow. It was through these shadows that Steve and his men crept, following the creases in the fields and staying low, hoping to avoid the attention of the depot sentries as they approached from the west.

From the east, Ser Yorick led his own squad, following the river and the thick trees that bordered it. Without any way to communicate, Steve felt a thread of disquiet, like they were on a clock he couldn’t see, but he strangled it, focusing on his own task. Beyond their two separate approaches, they needed to get the job done before the mounted squad drew near. An effort to catch any who slipped their net could easily give the game away before they were ready.

Brigandine was leagues better than plate for their task, and Steve was thankful he had paid extra to have the helms and gorgets scuffed and darkened. Having left his plate behind that night, the most reflective thing about them was the shield on his back, but he was long practised in ensuring that there would be no glint of light from it to give them away. The final approach was yet to come, but they were closer than he and Walt had been earlier that day, and the alarm was yet to be raised.

“Ser,” Robin whispered. “I can make the shot from here.”

Steve raised a fist, Humfrey mirroring him halfway down the line, and they stopped, half hidden behind a rolling slope. “You’re sure?” They were less than one hundred metres from the walls, but not by much.

Robin nodded, taking an arrow from his quiver, and that was enough for Steve. He looked to Humfrey and spoke softly. “You will hold here until Robin takes his shot. Once the sentry is dealt with, rush the gate, quietly, and I’ll have it open for you.”

“Aye ser,” Humfrey said, even and steady. He had come a long way from being a barely trained villager fighting against clansmen, even if he had killed two in his first fight.

“Robin, you take your shot as soon as you see me make my move,” Steve said. He spent a long moment looking over Humfrey’s squad. A mix of smallfolk and men at arms, the fifteen of them were crouched, leaning against the slope, and there was a mix of caution and eagerness in their frames. He had trained them as best he could, but now it was on them to put it into action. “Godspeed. I’ll see you all afterwards.”

There was no answer, but every man touched a knuckle to their forehead or ducked their heads. Steve turned and made for the river, disappearing into the night, and they settled in to wait.

Save for the thick line of trees on either bank of the river, there was little cover beyond depressions in the fallow fields. Had it been daytime, or had the cloud cover been less, he would have been completely exposed to any sentry to glance his way. But it wasn’t, and he wasn’t. Steve made it to his goal in a quick minute, a tree that was too far from the camp to be worth the effort of removing, in line with the north side wall. He could see the sentry in the tower clearly. The man was sitting down, chest and up above the walls of his perch, and he had removed his helm, though he still wore a chain coif. He was looking towards the river, keeping an eye on the boats or perhaps just appreciating the way the moon reflected from its slow moving surface.

Steve watched, profile hidden against the tree, and waited for long heartbeats. When he judged the moment right, he moved swiftly, crossing the distance to the wall in moments. The spike filled ditch he stepped over in one long stride, slipping between the spikes on the mound behind it without slowing. The mound served as a platform for him to leap over the wall in a single bound, and he collided with the side of the tower platform, grasping the top with his left hand. The sentry was looking over in confusion, and confusion turned to alarm as he saw the man clinging to the outside of his post. He was drawing in a breath to shout, one hand going to the dagger at his hip, when Steve vaulted over and kicked him in the jaw as hard as he could.

The man’s neck snapped audibly and he collapsed, but Steve was there to catch him before he could land with a clatter of maille. He rose up in time to hear the faint twang of a bow, followed by a pained exhale and the sound of someone falling to one knee. There was a second twang, and a soft thud. He paused, listening, but after a long moment all remained quiet, and the sentries at the far end of the depot didn’t so much as twitch, continuing their watch.

It wasn’t easy to clamber down the tower with one hand, but he managed, sliding down and using his good hand and feet to arrest his momentum, hopping off when he could land quietly. Inside the camp proper now, he could see that his first impression had been correct - whoever had organised it knew what they were doing, the lanes straight and true, buildings and canvas tents arranged in blocks. There was no time to inspect them more closely however, and he darted along towards the gate between the wall and the wooden building that they suspected to be the barracks. The gate was barred, but it was the work of a moment to raise it, and then the gate was creaking open to let in Humfrey and his men. They hurried in, slipping to the side and out of view of anyone who might walk along the lane that ran all the way down to the gate on the east side.

“The barracks?” Humfrey asked, voice hoarse with the whisper.

Steve nodded. On either side of the west gate, and against the wall, if it wasn’t them there wasn’t a second option. “Detail four men to block the doors. The rest of you will go to the stables and lock them down,” he said. Going by the size of the buildings, there could be twenty men in each or there could be forty, but that wouldn’t matter if they were trapped within, or better yet unaware of the intrusion. “I’ll make sure the camp is clear.”

Gestures and whispers conveyed orders, but Steve left them to it, venturing alone deeper into the depot. It was only caution that said there might be guards on patrol, but better to check than to be caught unawares. He prowled down the lanes, checking the camp in a grid pattern. The stable was by the south gate, so he checked the rest of camp first, the minutes spent stretching out as he strained his senses. The night air was cool, and in the stillness every step seemed to crunch loudly in the dirt. He couldn’t help but inspect the temporary ‘warehouses’ that much of the camp housed. They almost looked like marquee tents, wooden stakes holding up canvas roofs so that the crates and barrels within could be attended to from all sides, no doorway entrance creating a bottleneck. The supplies they held were stacked high, almost to the ceiling, too high to be able to look through and see the other lanes. He continued searching, ears pricked.

He found nothing. Either there were no patrolling guards, or they had the devil’s own luck in avoiding him. He caught a glimpse of Robin clambering up into the sentry tower that he had made vacant, keeping his bow below its side, out of sight, and he gave a two fingered salute in acknowledgement, receiving one in turn. Things were going as well as could be hoped.

Then, he heard an angry call, and sounds of a scuffle. A horse whinnied loudly. At the same time, he heard a snap of stone on flesh from the east.

His men could handle whomever they were fighting at the stable, but Yorick’s squad would be slowed by the locked gate. He was already running for the gate when he heard another sling shot whistling through the air, and a loud clang as it hit a helm. An oath of pain followed, and Steve reached the east gate in time to see the last sentry rising back up, one hand on his head, the other reaching for a rope hanging from a small bell.

Had his shield been whole, the throw would have been easy, but his shield was not whole. It was broken, and his hand was burnt. The bell rang once, twice, sounding out in the night, and then the sentry’s head snapped back as something hit him in the face. Alive or dead, he fell back against the tower wall and slumped out of sight.

Steve lifted the bar from the gate and tossed it over his shoulder, dragging the gates open, and then he was sprinting back towards the barracks. The bell had rang only briefly, but it surely would have woken some, and from there more would wake. The staccato of hooves caught his ear, close and growing closer, and he was passing through the central intersection of the camp when he caught sight of the horse and rider. The man’s look of determination turned to one of almost comical surprise, and Steve saw the moment he decided to ride him down. Stopping in place, he waited as the rider neared, as if frozen with indecision. The man was unarmed, and had a split lip, but his mount at full gallop would still be enough to kill most men.

Most men, but not Steve Rogers.

The horse neared, and Steve jumped, twisting, clearing the horse with ease. The rider had a bare moment to gape before he was backhanded off his mount, flying through the air and wheezing at the blow to his chest. He landed heavily in the dirt, twitching and stunned, but Steve had no time to see to him. He could hear a clamour at the barracks, and his men needed his aid.

He ran, long legs eating up the remaining distance, and he arrived in time to see two of his men bracing against one of the barrack doors. Something slammed against it on the other side, rocking them back, but they held firm with hard earned strength. Their spears acted as bars, fed through the handle to prevent it from being opened inwards. Those within the barracks were well and truly awake, and he could hear similar struggles taking place at the other doors. Across the lane, the door closest had no men holding it, but instead a wall of crates, three deep at the door.

Steve placed a hand on the door, and when the next charge came, it barely shifted. A pained cuss sounded from behind the door.

“Ser?” one man asked.

“Head to the other barracks,” Steve said. “I’ll handle this.” There was another impact on the door and a loud crash, like something was being used as a battering ram, but again the door only rattled. “Take your spears.”

Neither man hesitated, taking out the spears they had used as bars and taking off at a run. When it came to feats of strength, there wasn’t a man in the company that doubted their Captain. Again there came a crash, but this time something broke, and it wasn’t Steve or the door. More curses sounded, and he decided to take care of things before they hurt themselves.

The hinges had seen better days, and the door was stiff as Steve opened it. Creaking, it opened inwards, revealing the interior to him. Rows of bunk beds ran the length of the building, roughmade and with stretched canvas for mattresses. More important were the men who had been sleeping on them, many half dressed and half armoured. Two men held the remains of a trunk between them, and they were openly befuddled as they stared at the open door.

“I think I see the problem,” Steve said, trying and failing to hold back a smirk. “This door opens inwards, and you were trying to push it out.”

The chest was dropped as the first man, shirtless and with an impressive brown moustache, lowered his head and rushed him barehanded. He meant to tackle Steve out of the way and leave the exit open, but he found instead an immovable wall of muscle, less give to it than the wooden walls of the building itself. What would have been a perfect example of a tackle, folding Steve over his shoulder and carrying him back, instead left him in a deep guillotine hold, though it wasn’t for long.

Steve grabbed him by the hem of his pants and threw him up into the ceiling with a great crash. When he came down as gravity demanded, he landed on his fellow battering ram enthusiast, trapping him under his stunned bulk.

“Who’s next?” Steve asked.

There were many volunteers. The door at the far end of the building was left almost alone as the men-at-arms flowed towards the false promise of escape. The first was met with a loud open handed slap, spinning him as he was knocked to the right, and the second caught the backhand, sending him careening into a bunk to the left, thoroughly rattled.

The next man had a dagger, and advanced with wide swipes, trying to force Steve to step back as much as cut him. Instead he turned and stepped in through the door, ruining the slash. The dagger came up for his neck, but Steve caught it with his left hand, allowing the blade to slide between his fingers, catching the hand wielding it in his own. He twisted his wrist, and with a crack the man’s own broke, prying a scream from his throat at the unexpected pain. Steve swept his legs out from under him with one foot, and he landed heavily, rolling out of the way as best he could despite the pain.

The next five men didn’t provide any more of a challenge, and Steve handed out slaps and backhands with alacrity. One hand may be burnt and swaddled in bandages, but the day he couldn’t hold a doorway against regular folk with one hand was the day he retired. There were still a good three dozen men in the building, but suddenly they were looking a lot less eager to get past him, some glancing back at the other door.

A panicked surge towards the door that three of his men were holding wasn’t ideal. He took a deceptively casual stance. "Now, we can keep going, or you can go back to bed,” he said, sweeping his gaze over them. “But one way or another, you'll be taking a nap." He raised his left hand in silent threat.

“You want us to let you just take the camp?” someone called in challenge.

“I want you to stay in your barracks so I don’t have to kill any more of you,” Steve said bluntly.

Several men looked to those on the ground, but they were still shifting and groaning, some pulling themselves out of the way, and they were confused, but then they realised what it must mean for an enemy knight to be in the heart of their camp, menacing them in their own barracks.

“You stay in here and don’t make trouble, and you’ll be released unharmed once we’re done here,” Steve said. “Otherwise…”

The group was too large to judge its members individually, but he could feel the mood wavering between keyed up and overwhelmed by his display.

A clatter of hooves approached, and Steve stepped back through the door to see who approached. It was one of Humfrey’s squad, and the horse was a new one.

“We got them all Ser,” the man said. “The camp is yours.”

“Thank you Robert,” Steve said. He glanced back at those within the building. They hadn’t made any move in his apparent distraction, but they had still heard his words. “Well?”

“You took the camp?” the same man amongst them asked, apparently the new spokesman.

“I could be lying,” Steve said. “But the sentries aren’t ringing their bells, you’re trapped in your barracks, and my soldier here is riding one of your horses.”

Another horse approached, and this time it was one of Yorick’s squad. “Captain,” the man said. It was Draga, a rare Northman found in the Vale. There was blood in his black beard. “Boats are taken, and their crew.”

“Well done,” Steve said. He turned back to the milling men-at-arms. “Got the supply boats, too.”

“...fine.”

“Fine what?”

“We’ll stay penned up in here,” the same man said. “On our word.”

“Everyone agrees with this?” Steve asked the room at large. There was a round of ayes, some more grudging than others, but he was satisfied. “Where’s your commander?” he asked.

“He had the night squad in the stables,” came the answer.

Steve glanced at Robert in question. Robert shook his head, dragging a finger across his throat. “I’ll be keeping you all separate for now,” he said, “but I’ll have my doctor see to any of the badly wounded. If anyone tries to leave, you will be stopped.”

With that final warning, the door was pulled closed with a loud slam, the damage done to it requiring more force than usual.

“Robert, stay on this door,” Steve ordered. “I’ll send some people to help you secure it soon.”

“Aye ser.”

Steve was already striding away, heading for the stables. “Draga, back to Yorick, fill him in on what happened. Henry should be close, and I want a rider sent to him and to the rest of the company. Tell Keladry to bring them inside the walls and begin processing what we have.”

“Captain,” Draga said, wheeling his horse around and cantering north.

Getting a move on towards the stables, Steve tempered his concern with cautious optimism. The camp hadn’t been taken clean, but it had been taken, and now it was just a matter of cleaning it up.

X

“How bad is it?” Steve asked. His arms were folded across his chest, and the room stank of horse.

“It’s bad,” Corivo said. He didn’t look up, keeping his head out of the light cast by the torch that Ren was holding for him. “Though, it could be worse.”

On a bench before him, made from crates and covered in spare canvas, a man lay, one pant leg cut off and used as a rag to soak up blood. He was grimacing in pain as Corivo worked on the deep wound in his leg with needle and thread, sweat beading on his forehead.

“How’s the pain Ed?” Steve asked. The blond man had been with him since the adventure in the mountains, and now he was in the Reach with a sword wound through his thigh.

“Not as bad as your marching songs,” Ed said. He tried to grin, but only managed to make his beard twitch.

“Now you’re just being mean spirited,” Steve said. “Want another dose?”

“Well, if you insist,” Ed said.

Carefully, Steve held the wineskin for him, and Ed craned his neck up to sip at the Arbor Gold it held.

“Seems wrong,” Ed said, “to kill a man and then steal his wine.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Humfrey said, standing at the foot of the makeshift bench. “You were too busy cursing him out while I killed him.”

Rather than carry the wounded man somewhere, the doctor had been brought to Ed, and the stable turned into a makeshift workspace for the Myrman. Also present in the room was the corpse of the camp commander, still in his gambeson and chain, though his face was a bloody mess.

“I woulda had him,” Ed argued. He sucked in a breath as Corivo tightened his stitches.

“Bandage,” Corivo said, and Ren handed them over. The doctor guided Ed to raise his leg enough so the wound could be wrapped and the man did so, groaning.

“What’s this complaining?” Steve asked. “Anyone would think you’d been stabbed.”

Ed laughed, only to groan again. “Yeah, could be worse. Could be out of the war entirely.”

There was a long moment where no one answered.

The wounded man lost what humour he had, and he fought to push himself up. “But you said it could be worse-!”

“‘Worse’ is you bleeding out before the fight is over,” Corivo said, still wrapping the wound. “There is an artery - well. It was not cut, and you are alive.”

Ed grew paler, and let himself fall back against the bench. “What will I do? If I can’t fight-”

“-then you’re still a member of the company,” Steve said. “You’ll heal. It’ll just take time.” He glanced over at Corivo, and the man tilted his head fractionally one way then another. “Even if you don’t get back full movement, you’re still covered by my guarantee.”

A tension seemed to ease from the man, and he nodded. “What do I do in the meanwhile then?”

“Well, much as I’m sure Walt would love to have you doing his busywork,” Steve said, and Ed froze, “you’ve got the kind of steady hands that I think Corivo would find useful in an assistant.”

Corivo paused in his work, looking up.

“If Corivo is amenable to that, that is,” Steve said.

“Assistant,” Corivo said, looking like he’d like to stroke his moustache but for the blood on his hands. “This word, it is not the one before journeyman and master?”

“No, that’s apprentice,” Steve said.

“Hmm,” Corivo said. He resumed his bandaging, tying it off. “He could be useful, in one or two weeks, once he can stand easily.”

“I would - yes, thank you ser,” Ed said.

“That’s sorted then,” Steve said. He handed over the wineskin. “Make sure you enjoy this. Ren, you shadow Corivo until he doesn’t need you, then go find Keladry. We’ll stay here tomorrow - today - and set off the day after, once we’re rested.”

Ed bowed his head as best he could while lying down.

“Yes Captain,” Ren said, with a little more intensity than was warranted, but Steve was used to it.

“Humfrey, walk with me,” Steve said. He turned and left the stables behind, and after a moment of surprise, Humfrey followed.

The camp had well and truly been captured now, two sentries in each corner tower and a squad at the docks. The barracks were under guard, and some of the warehouse tents had been rearranged so that the troops could get some sleep without needing to do more work than was needed. Quiet conversations drifted through the camp as the excitement of the night came to an end.

Steve walked down the main camp lane, heading north, and Humfrey walked with him, behind at first, but at his side once Steve nudged him forward. While not as big as the likes of Hugo or the twins, he was still a broad shouldered man, and the training and food had seen him fill out well. With the moon no longer obscured by clouds, his scalp almost shone in its light.

“So, you killed the commander,” Steve said as they walked.

Humfrey glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Not my first kill.”

“No, that would be those clansmen that raided your home,” Steve said.

Humfrey grunted.

“You had a spear then, right?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Humfrey said. “Walt taught us.”

Steve was quiet, boots crunching in the dirt as they went.

“Not as good as Keladry, I don’t think anyone is,” Humfrey added, filling the silence.

“Keladry’s one of the best I’ve seen with a polearm,” Steve said. “You didn’t use a spear on the commander.”

“No, I -” he cut himself off, swallowing the explanation he was going to give.

“Saw the knight’s face,” Steve said. “Didn’t die particularly well.”

“No ser,” Humfrey said. His hands, bruised and scabbing, flexed gingerly.

They reached the north gate, and came to a stop. The river was visible from there, the gates open, and a section of the trees on either side of the two small piers had been cut down. For a moment, Steve just watched the reflection of the moon on its flat surface.

“I thought he killed him,” Humfrey said. “Ed.” He ran a hand over his scalp.

“Walt tells me that you and Ed are cousins,” Steve said.

“You spoke - right. Yeah,” Humfrey said.

“The problem isn’t that you killed him,” Steve said at length. “This is war. It’s not even that you beat him to death. Do you know what it is?”

Humfrey set his mouth in a grimace and nodded. “Yes Captain.”

Steve waited.

“I didn’t need to kill him. I could have stopped,” Humfrey said, scar pulling at his eye. “I was just - angry.”

“I know anger,” Steve said, and something in his tone made Humfrey swallow, even though he knew it wasn’t directed at him.

“I can step down from squad leader,” Humfrey said. “There’s a few lads who would be-”

“What will you do next time?”

“Ser?”

“Next time someone in your squad gets hurt, or killed,” Steve said. “You’ve only got the one cousin, but I know one of your friends is in your squad, and the others will become just as close over the war. What will you do then?”

“I’ll…I’d stop,” Humfrey said.

“Would you?” Steve asked. He turned away from the river, looking Humfrey in the eye. “Would you stop?”

Humfrey met his gaze. “I would, ser.”

Steve watched him for a few long heartbeats, taking his measure. Humfrey swallowed, but didn’t look away. “I believe you,” he said. “Get your squad sorted and bunked down for the night. We’ll deal with the camp in the morning.”

Humfrey let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Yes Captain.” He turned, heading into the camp. He was a few paces away when the Captain’s voice called out again.

“Humfrey?”

He turned, heart skipping a beat.

“You’ve given me your word,” Steve said.

Humfrey nodded, once, and the look in his eye said he understood what he had given. Steve turned back to the river, letting him go, and listened as his footsteps faded. The moon was bright, and the reflection was picturesque on the river.

It had been a long day.

X x X

A day and a night later, Steve and his soldiers rode west, and behind them they left a tall column of smoke. It was the smoke of the camp walls, of the gates, of the towers, the buildings, of every last crate of grain or drained barrel. Spare weapons and armour had been thrown on to blacken and warp, even the supply boats had their masts cut down and their oars removed to add to the conflagration. By the time the fire had burnt itself out, nothing would remain of use to any passing army. What horses the camp had were requisitioned, the best of the supplies taken to top up their stores, and the prisoners left in the field outside, left without shoes and with just enough supplies of their own to reach civilisation if they stretched them.

Sullen eyes watched as they went, shadowed by the growing smoke, but the men of the Reach were beaten and they knew it. They could only watch as the column of riders rode west, white star banner flapping at its head. Watch, and know that they would not be the last to fall victim to them.

On the advice of Walt and the other experienced campaigners, they stayed away from the river as they travelled, keeping to smaller paths. At times, the trails they followed narrowed to the point that they could only travel in single file, but the decision proved fruitful a day after leaving the camp, when a group of fifty men were seen marching east, likely making for the fading remains of the smoke column that still lingered. Warned by outriders, they were able to watch, concealed, as the small force passed by.

“They can’t have come from too far away,” Steve said, laying near the top of the hill his troops were hiding behind, looking down.

“Carrying their vittles with them, not overloaded, no wagon,” Walt said. “Gotta be another holdfast within a day’s ride.”

“We should drop in on them,” Steve said. He began to crawl back down the hill until he could stand without fear of being seen. “Robin, stay here and keep watch, then come get me when they’re gone.”

The holdfast was nearby, and without the extra men garrisoned there, there was little it could do when Steve led a charge through the gates. It was almost becoming rote, the securing of the bailey and the forced surrender of the defenders. Rote also was the destruction of supplies and war goods, and familiar was the look on the face of the landed knight. Less familiar was the way they lingered in the small settlement, just long enough for the force of fifty to return to be ambushed. Tired from days of marching to bring word of the destroyed camp, they were overwhelmed and outmanoeuvred without loss of life, something that Steve considered a personal achievement.

They had brought with them some few of the men captured at the camp, and it was those men who had the pleasure of surrendering to the white star banner for a second time. Steve tried not to find amusement in the looks on their faces, but he was a good man, not a great one. Shoes were confiscated, horses were seized, and again they marched west, looking for more trouble to cause.

Five days later, the small paths and trails they were following folded back into the main road by the river. Steve ordered extra screening riders as a precaution, but the sky was blue, and there were purple flowers growing in the fields. Despite their business, there was still beauty to be found, and Steve found himself enjoying the day. When Naerys rode up to join him, the day only improved.

“Naerys,” Steve said as she fell in beside him. He had been riding with Robin, but the kid had seen her coming, and dropped back without comment.

“Steve,” Naerys said. “What are you smiling about?”

“Well, I was just wondering if the view could get any better, and then it did.”

Two spots of colour bloomed in Naerys’ cheeks, and she gave him an arch look. “Is that the way a captain should be speaking to his quartermaster?”

Steve didn’t answer, just gazing at her for a few long heartbeats.

“Steve?” Naerys asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I was distracted by the way the sun is shining on your hair.”

There was a snicker behind them.

“Steve!” Naerys said, blush brightening.

“Naerys,” Steve said.

“Behave,” she said, but her eyes darted to his lips for a split second. “You too Robin.”

The snickering stopped.

“Yeah Robin, behave,” Steve said. “What brings you up here?”

“I’ve finished reading through what we found at the supply depot,” Naerys said, ignoring his cheek. “Putting the pieces together with what we copied at the holdfasts, I think I’ve got a hold on the plan for the supply situation, in this region at least.”

“Lay it on me,” Steve said, all business.

“They were expecting another three months of shipments at the depot,” Naerys said, “at which point the camp would be abandoned in stages.”

“You think the Reach army is expected in three months then?”

“No!” Naerys said. “I mean, at first I did, but then I thought that the army won’t be running their supplies down to the gristle before resupplying, not with how well organised they are otherwise, so why would they arrive and pick it all up in one go?” Her tone was excited, like she had solved a puzzle.

“So?” Steve asked, leading.

“Between how much space they had set aside, and when they had planned to start breaking it down, how much they had in the holdfasts we took and how much those lordly troops were carrying on themselves, I think as much as half the supplies from the depot are going to be sent

on

to Reach forces after they invade the Stormlands,” Naerys said, voice in a rush.

“Supplied over land?” Steve asked, frowning in consideration. “That’s a long way for a supply train.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Naerys said. “But they don’t need to supply far, just far enough - say, any Reach forces that stay in the western Stormlands, far from resupply by sea.”

“Huh,” Steve said, thinking as Brooklyn plodded onwards. “Extending their operational ability without relying on what they can carry, or overburdening them.” He thought it over. “How long then? Until the Reach army rolls through.”

“A month and a half, two months,” Naerys said. “Best I could narrow it down to. I need to check again when we make camp,” she said, as if warding off high expectations. “But I think I’ve worked it out.”

“Your reasoning sounds solid,” Steve said. “We’ll sit down and check it, but I think this might be reason to break out the Arbor.”

“Ser Rogers, I think you just want an excuse to share some wine with me,” Naerys said.

“It’s not mulled wine,” Steve said, recalling an evening spent atop a cold tower in warm company, “but I won’t deny it.”

Naerys’ eyes seemed to flash purple as they traced his shoulders. “Maybe we could find a blanke-” she suddenly seemed to remember they weren’t quite alone. She coughed. “-some blank parchment and go over my numbers.”

Steve had a moment to think of what Naerys might want to do with him and a blanket, but he was rescued from the rabbithole his mind was about to go down when one of their outriders rounded a bend ahead at a good canter. “Head back to the other non-combatants,” he said, tone just short of brusque.

Switching tracks as quickly as he did, Naerys was already nudging her horse around, though she left him with one final look that made it clear where her mind had been going.

The scout arrived, and though they had ridden fast, they did not look worried or concerned, and Steve found himself more annoyed at the interruption than anything. “Captain,” they said.

“What’s the word son?”

“Bridge ahead, across the Blueburn,” he said. “No one there, but it’s a solid one. Two wagons wide.”

“Sounds like a major crossing,” Steve said.

“That’s what Erik said,” the scout said. “He wants to know if we’ll be passing by, or doing something about it.”

“Evidence of our passage and disruption, or leave them guessing and ease of travel,” Steve said, considering.

“How deep was the river there?” Robin asked, rejoining him.

“Might be shallow enough to make river passage difficult with the rubble,” the scout said. “Couldn’t tell.”

“We’ll destroy it,” Steve decided. They were here to impede Reach forces, and a lack of bridges was mighty helpful in that. There had been other bridges passed in the days prior, but none as sturdy or wide as this one sounded. “What’s the bridge like?”

The scout answered his questions as they rode, telling of the aged stone bridge, of crumbling capstones and solid roadway, and in less than half an hour, they had arrived. The column swelled in on itself, gathering at the bridge. It was as described, old stonework that had seen better days, two spans wide.