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

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

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

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

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

Easy. Comparatively, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful what you wish for,” Steve said.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck off,” the sailor said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They both laughed at his apparent misfortune.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...is bullshit,” one man was saying.

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

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

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

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

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

“Your wife then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha-”

“Oi-”

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

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

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

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

They shook their heads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oi, who’re you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last notes of the horn began to fade away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not absent though,” Steve said.

“No, never absent,” Brandon agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like that,” Steve said.

“I’m sure,” Brandon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Appreciate it, Brandon,” Steve said.

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

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

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

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

“How long ago?”

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

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

“I’m not-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daveth, milord,” he said.

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

“Aye,” Daveth said, nodding.

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“War, mostly,” Steve said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your parents?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

“How’s that?” Steve asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not a soldier,” Corivo warned.

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

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

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

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

“Three stags a day-”

Corivo tsked.

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

“Done,” Corivo said instantly.

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

“Even you?” Corivo asked in challenge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, Lord America?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll have it done,