A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

Lord Mooton rose from his seat at the other end of the hall. “What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

Rolling his shoulders, Steve just happened to show off his shield to the notables in the hall, and many an eye fixed upon the white star on it. “I am Lord America. Lord Mooton, I’m here to accept your surrender.” Shocked murmurs began to rise from around the hall as his squad entered the hall behind him.

Disbelief and outrage grew upon Mooton’s face. “Seize them!”

Steve strode across the dancefloor, making directly for the main table and drawing the attention of the guards. They rushed to apprehend him, though their way was hampered by the layout of the hall, forcing most to head towards the main table first. The two who didn’t were met instead by Henry or Yorick and their respective twin. It did not go well for them.

Keladry stepped forward to meet the first to reach them, an unlucky man who thought to contest her polearm to polearm. Two movements later the guard was struck across the jaw by the iron shod butt of her glaive, dropping him, and the next who thought to take advantage of her distraction found Hugo stepping quickly to seize his weapon, using it to drag him close to headbutt him viciously. Blood spurted as a nose broke messily, and a nearby woman shrieked.

A guest rose from their seat as Yorick and Ortys passed behind them, a steak knife held to drive into Yorick’s armpit. The knight shifted, letting it skitter off his pauldron, and Ortys grabbed the man’s arm, forcing it to the table. Yorick didn’t bother trying to take the knife from him, instead just slamming his gauntleted fist onto the man’s hand, again and again. The man gave a shriek to match the woman from before, hand spasming and the knife going free. They released him, letting him collapse back into his chair with his hand cradled to his chest, and continued towards the service door.

Steve had not stopped his advance, and nor had he been forced to raise a hand as Keladry and Hugo continued to dismantle the guards that sought to subdue them. There was the snap of a bowstring and a cry of pain behind them, the sound of someone having their hand pinned to the table, but there was no time to look. They were already halfway down the hall.

“You chose the wrong side in this war, Lord Mooton,” Steve called.

“I chose to hold to my oaths,” Mooton snapped back. He was still standing, fists planted on his table as he leaned forward.

“Why is your oath to the king worth more than the oath to your Lord Paramount?” Steve asked. “Why hold to an oath to a man that cuts body parts from young girls?”

Mooton grimaced. “The punishment for treason must be harsh.”

“Treason?” Steve asked, the hint of a scowl descending on his brow. “Lyanna Stark was abducted, her guards slaughtered.”

“All of Riverrun witnessed the King’s invitation,” Mooton argued, though his words were stiff. Perhaps he knew the truth of the matter, or perhaps it was the way that Hugo had just picked up the last of his guards and dumped him onto the side table, sending a rich gravy splattering everywhere.

“Believe what you want,” Steve said. He stepped over a wheezing guard, taking the lead, Kel and Hugo taking up positions at his shoulders. “Here and now, that doesn’t matter.” They were nearly at the main table.

The knight that had been sitting at the probable Lady Eleanor’s side stood, hair dark and face determined, vaulting the table with a knife in each hand. He darted at Steve, respectably quick, one knife held out to stab, the other low to slice at whatever was used to ward him off.

Steve kicked him in the chest, sending him back over the table. The minstrel had to scramble from her chair by the wall to avoid him, protecting her lute. The soldier stopped his approach, inspecting those before him. With the dismissal of the now groaning knight, there were none who looked keen to throw hands at the main table, only those who seemed to be more skilled tradesmen or successful merchants. To the sides, the service doors were guarded by his men.

“Lady Eleanor?” Steve asked. She raised her chin proudly, answering with a nod, though her hands were out of sight beneath the table. “Pleased to meet you.”

“In another situation, I might say the same, Lord America,” the young noblewoman answered. She looked to be in her late teens, with pale blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair to match her father’s.

Steve held back a twitch of his lips at her sass, turning back to her father. “About that surrender,” he said.

“I have over a thousand good men,” Mooton said, spine straightening, his expression unyielding. “You cannot hope to overcome them.”

“We couldn’t,” Steve agreed, nodding amicably. Then his expression hardened. “But those men can’t protect you from me here and now.”

“I have sons to inherit after me,” Mooton said. “Should you slay me, Mooton and Maidenpool will continue to fight.”

“They might,” Steve said, shrugging. The hall was dead quiet, those behind him straining to hear their words. “But there’s still an army about to fall on your town. If you surrender now, you can avoid a sack.”

“My walls can hold for many months,” Mooton said, “and the rebels lack the ships to blockade me.”

“That would matter more if I hadn’t just invited myself to your feast and taken you hostage,” Steve said.

“Perhaps,” Mooton answered. “But I will not be hostage for long. You may have slipped inside my keep, but I have more men than just this handful, and soon they will come.”

“Not afraid of what I might do to you?” Steve asked.

Mooton swallowed, but raised his chin in defiance. “I have sons,” he repeated.

“You have a daughter, too.”

Naked fear crossed Mooton’s face, but only for a moment. He steadied himself. “No. Word is spreading about you, Lord America.”

“Oh?” Steve asked.

“Your adventures in the Reach are becoming known, as well as how you conducted yourself,” the lord said, growing more confident. “Moreso, you have given only the briefest of attentions to Eleanor. You are no black knight.”

“Hnn,” Steve said, tapping a beat on his thigh as he thought. The man wasn’t wrong, and he wasn’t about to do anything that would change his mind. But then, he didn’t need to do anything drastic, just enough to make Mooton doubt. “Keladry, take Lady Eleanor back to her rooms. Keep an eye on her there.”

There were gasps, and Mooton gaped, before trying to mask the fear that he had read things wrong with outrage. “You wouldn’t- !”

Steve blinked. “What? Oh.” He looked to Kel. “Do you mind…?” As much as not correcting Mooton might aid his goal, he wasn’t that kind of guy.

She inclined her head. “Lord Mooton, I am Lady Keladry Delnaimn of the Vale, late of Owlwatch.” She seemed larger as she spoke the words.

Now it was Mooton’s turn to blink. “You are…I see.” He blinked again. “No, what-”

He was not the only one befuddled, but Steve ignored him and the murmurs of the guests at his back. “Lady Eleanor,” he said, turning to her as he cut her father off. “Do I have your word that you will cooperate?”

Eleanor’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, but her gaze remained steady on Steve. “You would not hold your hostages as proof against my conduct?”

“I don’t need to,” Steve said, tone frank. “If you come across any of your father’s men and ask them to free you, Keladry will kill them.”

The noblewoman did not stammer or gasp, but her gaze did flick to the glaive that Kel held easily. “I will cooperate,” she said, voice even.

Steve gave her a nod, and gestured for Kel. There was no need for words, only a glance, as both knew what he wanted of her and the standards they both held to.

Eleanor rose from her seat, making her way out from behind the main table to join those who had invaded her home, and stopped in front of Kel. All watched as she stared down the woman who would act as a warrior for a long moment, gaze searching. It seemed that whatever she looked for, she found, and she offered her hand. Like a knight escorting a lady, Kel offered her arm in turn, and the two departed the feast hall, even footsteps taking them down the room and out through the broken main doors.

“Maybe I’m not one to threaten or risk harm to innocents,” Steve said, picking up the previous thread of conversation with Mooton and commanding the attention of the feasters once again, “but what about you?”

Mooton frowned at him. “Explain.”

“Tomorrow, Lord Tully will arrive with his army. I figure that’s the reason behind all…” he made an encompassing gesture with a twist of his wrist, “...but you have to know what comes after.”

The lord narrowed his eyes, stepping back from the table he had been leaning on. His arms crossed. “We fight. We hold.”

“For how long?” Steve challenged.

“Long enough for the loyal kingdoms to rally to the cause. The rebels may have stolen a march with their muster before rising up against the King, but that advantage will soon be gone.”

Steve held back from pulling a face at another reminder of the propaganda that was apparently still going around. Before he could reply, he was interrupted as the knight he had kicked back over the table got to his feet, letting out a pained gasp, but holding a knife in hand all the same. He had kept his grasp on only one knife, his other hand now clutching at his solar plexus. The minstrel, once hovering over him in concern, scrambled out of the way once she saw Steve looking towards them.

The soldier took up a pewter tankard sitting on the table, half full of some kind of mead. He drained it with a single pull as the knight started to stagger towards him, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and then pegged it at the knight.

A ringing gong filled the hall as the tankard hit the knight base first, squarely on the forehead, and snapped his head back. The knight collapsed to one knee, and then slowly fell to his side, eyes unfocused and unseeing. He still held tight to his knife, but there was already a visible lump forming.

Steve looked back to the minstrel. “Would you mind…?” he gestured at the fallen man.

The minstrel, a woman with dirty blonde hair and pale blue eyes, looked from Steve, to the fallen knight, to Mooton, and then back. The hall seemed to hold its breath.

Jerkily, Mooton nodded, and the woman was quick to kneel, easing the man from his awkward position and rubbing small circles on his temple. There was a choked snigger, but when Steve glanced over to Yorick, the man’s face was blank, for all his lips were pressed tightly together.

“What were we- right,” Steve said, regathering his thoughts. “You hope to hold out long enough for the Reach or Dorne or the Westerlands to get involved. Now, I don’t know if you’re putting on a brave face as a leader should, or if you haven’t had news about what’s going on, but you need to know that your walls will not hold.”

“We may number short of two thousand, but my walls are strong, and my men are stalwart,” Mooton said, undaunted, or at least putting on a good showing of it.

Steve could appreciate it, even if he was usually on the other side of things. “It’s not about the men you have, or the strength of your walls,” he told him. “What will your sons say when I tell them they can choose between your life and their loyalty to Aerys?”

Mooton swallowed, still remained stubborn. “My sons are honourable men.”

A sigh was his answer. “You-”

“Captain!” Robin called. There was a twang of a bow, and a pained scream. “Guards coming down the hall!”

Steve looked over his shoulder, back to the entry of the hall. Robin had loosed his arrow down along the hallway, and was now taking cover against the remaining upright door. Arland was doing similar, but against the stone of the wall on the other side. “Robin, pull back, Arland, at the ready!” There was the beat of feet on stone, and someone beyond the hall gave a war cry.

By the sound of it, there couldn’t be more than a dozen, but they were coming quickly. Likely the men he had heard playing dice in the structure on the wall, having realised something was wrong. Robin had leapt sprightly onto the tables, stepping easily between bowls of bread and gravy jugs, another arrow already nocked, while Arland had his mace ready to do violence to the first poor soul to burst through the entryway. He would need help with the rest, but that was what Steve was there for.

Steve leaned over the table and then some, supporting himself with one hand as his feet left the ground briefly, all so he could grasp the chair that Eleanor had left behind. By the time he was back on the ground and turning, the first guard was rushing through the door.

He was met by a mace to the chest - it would have been the face, but for his unusual height - and it sent him tumbling forward to the ground, chainmail doing little to soften the blow. The next man through was ready, aware now of the foe lurking to the side of the door. That awareness soon became moot, however, as he was hit in the face with the chair that had just been thrown the length of the hall. The guests, starting to rise, had been on the verge of giving in to their fight or flight, but suddenly they found themselves falling back into their chairs.

Arland had broken a man’s arm with a heavy blow, stepping out from concealment to blow the entry, and he blocked a heavy strike from a halberd with his shield, but more men were coming. One of them was met with an arrow through the meat of their thigh, but there were still more.

A gesture from Steve had Hugo remaining at the main table to keep an eye on things, and then the soldier was striding back towards the doors, taking up tankards and dishes as he went to throw at the guards in a barrage of cutlery and fine dining. It was almost comical, if not for the real damage he was inflicting. A tankard domed one man as he tried to gang up on Arland, and a metal plate spun through the air to hit another’s helm right on the nasal guard, leaving it dented and the wearer’s nose broken, streaming blood and in too much pain to continue on.

By the time Steve had made it back to the fight, Arland had been forced back, in line with the ends of the tables, but there were only three guards still on their feet, and in moments there were none. There were only pained moans, gritted teeth, and silent guests.

Steve looked back to the main table where Mooton had sunken back into his seat. It would have been easy to tell him to order his men to stand down, but that wasn’t the point. He clapped Arland on the shoulder, the man breathing heavily but uninjured, and started walking back towards Mooton.

“I didn’t come here for glory, or to boast,” Steve said, filling the hall with the words. “I didn’t come here for the rebel cause at all.” He drew nearer, footsteps over the dancefloor almost thudding with the measured weight of his steps. Every ear in the hall strained to listen to his words. “I came here to save your people, the ones who look to you for protection, from the pain of a sack.”

Mooton opened his mouth, to argue, to deny, but the words didn’t come, and then Steve was before him once more.

“If you don’t give the command for your men to stand down and surrender tomorrow, then I’m going to sneak across town to your gatehouse, fight my way inside, and open the gates to the rebel army,” Steve told him. He could see the doubt, the disbelief that would have been right if only the words had come from any other man. He saw the chance to twist the knife, driving his words home. “Just like I did at Gulltown.”

The hall was full of those who had cause to envy and look up to Lord Mooton, but in that moment, not a one would have swapped places with him for any amount of title or treasure. They watched, waiting, on the edge of their seats, for an end to what would surely become a tale they told their grandchildren.

“What’s it going to be, son?”

Lord Mooton looked down at his plate, but only for a moment. He looked back up, meeting stern blue eyes, and made his decision.

X

The mood was tense above the gatehouse, the only sound the flapping of banners in the morning wind. The clear skies above did little to ease things, and all along the town walls, men stood with spears gripped tight, watching the army that had assembled before them. In opposition to the banners bearing the Mooton salmon, there flew the banners of almost the Riverlands entire, from the twining red and white snakes of knightly House Paege, to the twin blue towers of House Frey and the silver eagle of House Mallister. Nor was the Riverlands alone - there were the bronze runes of House Royce from the Vale, and the silver fist of House Glover from the North. Over them all in pride of place flew the leaping trout of House Tully, and it was that banner that was carried by the party that was steadily approaching the town gates, their mounts draped in colourful barding.

Geoffrey Mooton grumbled under his breath as he watched them draw near. His plate shone under the sun, though he had forgone a helm. Neither his squire at his back nor his heir at his right made comment.

They were not the only ones with him atop the gatehouse, however.

“It’ll be done with soon,” Steve told the man, standing to his left. He had his shield, and his unassuming armour, but he wouldn’t need either.

“This all might be,” Geoffrey said. His shoulder shifted as if he wished to make a gesture, but he kept himself still and straight. “My House will be dealing with the aftermath for years. Tully would be a fool not to try and claw some treasure from us.”

“Probably,” Steve said, familiar enough with ransoms and the like at that point. Unlike his ‘host’, he felt more than free enough to shrug. “But it’s a lot easier to make your money back than it is to resurrect the dead and undo the trauma of a sack.”

Geoffrey grumbled again, but didn’t gainsay him. When he had sent word to his sons and his commanders that they would be surrendering, there had been many reactions, from confusion to rage. Stokeworth in particular had taken the news poorly, and as the man in charge of the next largest force had threatened to rally the defence in Mooton’s place, but Steve had paid him a visit and the man was now a guest in Mooton’s nicest dungeon. The visit had seen word of what was happening spread through the whole town by morning, and the only response from the average person had been one of relief.

Lord Tully and his party came to a stop before the walls, close enough to speak with raised voices, but not so close as to make it a pain to look up at those atop the gatehouse. The party was half high lords, half their squires or sworn swords, and Hoster’s gaze met Steve’s before fixing on his bannerman. For a long moment, there was silence, each party waiting for the other to speak.

“Geoffrey.”

“Hoster.”

A frown threatened to brew on Hoster’s face, but his brow stilled, and he looked back to Steve. “Lord America,” he called. “You seem to have met with success.”

“Lord Mooton is a reasonable man, Lord Tully,” Steve called back, his voice carrying along the walls and across the field. “He placed the safety of his people above his own pride.”

“I see,” Hoster said. A horse whickered loudly. “I had expected nothing less from a man such as he.”

At Geoffrey’s side, his son, William, seemed to swell with pride for his father.

“I have sworn many oaths, Lord Tully, all of them worthy,” Geoffrey said, and close as he was, Steve could make out the slight gritting of teeth that came with his words.

Again, Hoster took a moment before answering. “Some more than others.” His tone was pointed.

This time, the gritting of teeth was audible without superhuman hearing.

“But we can discuss oaths and the cost of holding to them once you have surrendered the town to me, Lord Mooton,” Hoster continued, formal now.

“Aye,” Mooton said, before his eyes darted to Steve and away, lightning quick. He let out a breath, steadying himself. “Lord Tully, in light of the deeds of Lord America, and according to the terms he has conveyed to me, I offer the surrender of my home of Maidenpool. In return for an end of hostilities between us pending the renewal of my oaths to the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, I swear to disperse my forces and take no further part in the conflict between House Targaryen and those sworn to them, and those who stand against them.”

Hoster had been following along, a satisfied set to his shoulders, but as Geoffrey had spoken further, he had stilled. A flash of anger coloured his face when he got to the terms, but it was quickly smoothed away. “With the Seven as my witness, so shall it be,” he cried, and then the gates were opening.

Tension evaporated from along the wall as men heard and passed it along to those that hadn’t, and word spread that none of them would have to die that day. A kid who had been perched on a nearby roof, listening in, shouted to someone below him, and word began to spread through the town, too.

“Smart move,” Steve said, giving Mooton some heavy side eye.

“I will not apologise,” Mooton said, though paradoxically his tone was apologetic. “Honour, much like life, is much harder than coin to regain if lost.”

Steve shrugged. “I’m not going to take it personally.”

“I thank you,” Mooton said, breathing easier.

“Hoster might though,” Steve added.

Mooton pulled a face. “Perhaps,” he said. “We will see how he feels once he reaches my keep.”

Steve’s gut wasn’t warning him to any mischief, but there was no more time to talk. Hoster was leading his party through the gates, first man through and apparently uncaring of the murder holes or armed men above who had only recently been his enemy. Mooton led the way down from the gatehouse, and then they were mounting their own horses, joining the party that had just passed into the town and were not quite milling in the street.

Bread and salt was brought forth quickly, given first to Hoster, and guest right was established, settling the more suspicious minds at ease. There was a hold up, however, as for some reason there was not enough for all, and Lord Mooton was insistent on showing to all that there would be no perfidy under the aegis of his House.

The longer they waited, Mooton and Tully making political small talk, the more Steve noticed the people of the town starting to peer out their windows, heads rising like gophers emerging from their burrows after a predator had passed. Mooton was delaying their ride to the keep deliberately, and he thought he knew why.

Finally, more bread and salt was brought, and shared by all. Steve apparently wasn’t the only one to twig to what Mooton had done, as he saw Hoster visibly calculating how the journey through the town would unfold. In short order, the riverlord was at the tip of the procession, with Steve at his right, and Mooton at his left. When they started to move, they did so not at a trot, but a walk.

Already there were people watching the procession, but as word continued to spread and more people gained the courage to emerge, confident that there would be no sack that day, more and more came to watch the lords who ruled over them. Soon it was not just those watching from windows or through barely open doors, but residents spilling into the streets. Before long, the cheering began.

Hoster inclined his head as they started to see crowds lining the way, a lordly smile upon his face as he received the adulation of his subjects, but so did Geoffrey. It was hard to say if the people cheered for either lord over the other, and Steve personally thought they were just happy to have avoided the suffering and hardship that came with a sack, but cheer they did.

Hoster leaned over towards Steve, though he kept his eyes on the street and growing crowds before them. “How did your men fare, Lord Steve?”

“No casualties, Lord Hoster,” Steve reported. “I had them stay in the castle to keep an eye on Mooton’s kids.”

That got him a sharp look. “You were concerned he might not hold to his word?”

“Nah, but I figured if I had his son and daughter in my custody he won’t get as much flak for surrendering.”

Hoster gave a nod but little else, concealing whatever he thought of Steve’s concerns. “His people are certainly joyous. Would that we had received this reception in every taken keep, we would be in King’s Landing by now.”

“Worth the effort to avoid the sack, isn’t it.”

A sharp look was sent his way in response, but Steve’s attention was elsewhere. There was a boy up ahead, sitting on his father’s shoulders and waving wildly. He had the lid of a small keg on one arm, fastened roughly with a rope, and on it was a blobby star done in white chalk. The boy saw him looking, and his wild waving only intensified.

Steve slipped his shield onto his arm, and raised it in the kid’s direction, grinning. The kid stopped, mouth dropping, before he raised his own shield in turn, gripping his father’s hair to keep himself steady as he started bouncing in his seat. The father winced, but he too was smiling, one hand going up to keep his boy steady.

Yeah, Steve thought. It was always worth it.