A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

It was a lady in a light summer dress, and she had been cut in half at the waist. Her guts had spilled out over the grass, blood drenching earth, and the expression frozen on her face was one of agony and fear. Keladry and her men slowed as they saw it, unable to look past the brutality even after their experiences in the war.

Steel clashed on steel, muted by the trees, but it was clear enough to seize their attention, and then they were moving. There was nothing they could do for the dead woman, and she didn’t wear the jewels of a Princess - but she did look like the kind of woman who might have served one.

They found two more bodies at the start of a path into the trees, men in the black of the Targaryen household guard, smoked cuirass over black gambesons. Both had died painfully, but it was nothing like the poor woman who had been cut in half. More sounds of fighting came, and they picked up their pace.

The next corpse they found slumped against a tree, torso tilted forward, and this one earned a curse from Lucion, the old soldier of her squad. It was Ser Richard, who had loved telling strange jokes and helping with drills, one hand still held to the wound to his neck that had killed him. Further along the path were more dead men in black, and trees bearing deep gouges, red sap oozing forth to join the blood on the ground, but so too were there men in brigandine and navy gambesons - Zep and Ser Than, Zep’s craggy face fixed in a snarl where he lay still clutching the spear that was buried in a foe, while Than had seemingly died still trying to rise to his feet to keep fighting, propped up by his sword.

The trail of carnage only grew worse, the peace of the Godswood thoroughly banished. Kel and her men were almost running then, but there was no missing the familiar faces of the corpses they passed. There was Ser Kraus, who always insisted he’d once had a whirlwind romance with a princess of Yi Ti, and there lay Byth with his chest cleaved open, never again to organise a game of football for the company.

They reached a clearing, and with it the worst of the fighting yet. Seven dead men, three of them familiar - Mamand and Draga and Qwartyn, a doomed rear guard going by where they fell. Mamand, always telling the most outrageous lies with the straightest of faces, had been cut near in half from the shoulder. .

“Fuck fuck no fuck,” came the pained, hushed words from Jace, the once-courier almost stumbling as he saw his friends. There was no time to stop.

No longer was there the sound of combat, and Keladry willed herself to stillness, staying in the moment and not thinking about why that might have been. Her composure and steady breathing was tested as the inside wall of the Keep came into sight, the door into it hanging open and more corpses before it. For all that they had killed twice their number holding it, they had fallen all the same, victim to the kind of blows she would expect from Steve or King Robert.

Ric’s face was pale, all his blood soaking the path and splattered over the wall, darkening its already red bricks, never again to laugh as Toby browbeat men three times his age in handling the horses. Next to him was Kai, whose enthusiasm for the Captain’s lessons wouldn’t lift the company ever again, his hands still locked around the neck of his last foe.

Sitting on the ground and leaning against the wall next to the door was Yorick. He looked up at their coming and met Kel’s eyes, twitching with every breath as blood spurted from the crook of his thigh, armour pierced and broken. He gathered the strength to give her a jerky nod, his remaining hand trembling as he pointed to his left. Then he died.

There was no time to stop, no time to mourn. Kel led her squad through the door and into the Keep. Even if Yorick hadn’t pointed the way, the bloody footprint in the hall to her right laid it out plainly. She could feel the anger spreading through her squad as they ran through the halls, hear it in the rush of their steps and the harshness of their breath. The trail they followed was fading, but it lasted long enough to see them through two turns, deeper into the structure and past salons and dining rooms.

It was when they reached a three way intersection that the trouble came. Kel would have preferred it be a coin flip of a decision, but the fresh group of household guards in blackened cuirasses approaching from another hall made clear where their quarry had gone. She opened her mouth to offer truce, to explain the need to work together, but something made her pause, her eyes fixed on the black gambesons the approaching men wore.

Lucion realised her suspicion a moment later. “They’ve no red on them,” he said, his scowl causing what was left of the old campaigner’s nose to draw up. He looked back the way they had come, realisation crossing his features. “None of them- dragon men always had red on them.”

The group, over a dozen strong, had slowed as they saw them, but they weren’t stopping. From the other hall, a loud, repeating clamour began to echo. Kel looked to her men, and saw the same realisation in them that had taken her. If they were to succeed, there was only one thing to do.

“We will hold them,” Ser Tymor said grimly, teeth bared in determination. He sheathed his sword, instead grabbing a small war pick from his hip. “Save the Princess, ser.”

“Not a knight, ser,” she reminded him yet again, but there was no more time to linger and spend words, not with the imposter guards forming up, not with the sound of something heavy beating on wood echoing down the hall. She offered up a prayer to the Warrior as she turned and left her men behind, already focusing on whatever fight awaited her. She was not so focused that she missed what he said to her back.

“Not yet.”

Down the halls of the Red Keep she went, readying herself as she passed rich tapestries and fine suits of armour. Everything that Ser Wyldon had taught her in her childhood, that Steve had taught her as she grew into herself, she brought all of it with her as she grew closer to the hammering and beating, the noise growing louder and louder. It sounded like a battering ram, but it could not be. Portraits of dead nobles watched her progress, gilt with gold though she could not help but compare them to her Captain’s work and find them wanting. She rounded another corner and beheld the end of a hall, and with it her quarry.

The sounds came from a giant of a man, punching at a thick wooden door. Rather than the usual outcome that would be expected, the door was shaking and splintering, as if a battering ram had been at it. The man was leaning forward against the wall with one hand bracing himself against the stone, while he brought his other back again and again to smite the barrier. Heavy furniture could be glimpsed through the damaged door, and a baby’s cry was sounding without end. She knew at once who was to blame for the worst of the wounds wrought on Yorick and his squad, and she set her heart to be like stone.

“Villain!”

Keladry’s voice cut through the air, stern enough to halt a raging hound - and it did. Even the baby’s wails paused. The hulking figure that had been about to smite the door once more paused, head coming up and around, as if the man couldn’t believe he had been interrupted. He had thick, flat eyebrows, and a face given to cruelty. There was an enormous greatsword at his hip, but he wore only poor plate and maille - and not even a full set at that - under a roughly made tabard, his colours yellow and black.

The man’s eyes flicked over her. “More of you,” he said, his voice like gravel. He clicked his tongue.

“I am here for the Princess,” Keladry said, coming to a stop just out of lunging distance. Her hand slipped down the haft of her glaive, readying herself to make a whip fast slash. “You will stand down.”

“You can have the bitch once I’m finished with her,” the brute said. A baby’s cry came from the room beyond, and he started to turn back.

“Touch them, and I will kill you.”

The man turned back, disbelief coloured by rage spreading across his face. He pushed off from the wall, rising to his proper height, and Keladry’s neck started to crane. He was bigger than even the largest of the Northmen she had encountered, and his arms were like tree trunks. “You’re a gash,” he accused, and then he started to grin, a horrible sharp thing. “I’ll have you, then the Dornish whore.”

He was not as strong as Steve. She slammed the butt of her glaive on the stone floor, setting the hall to ringing. “See what trying gets you,” she challenged. There was a patch of dark blood near his knee, staining the hem of his tabard. There was about to be a lot more.

The Soldier Who Would Save Them All II

The drawbridge was down. As far as Steve could tell, it was the only way into the Holdfast that was the final refuge of the Red Keep, a castle within a castle, and it was down. That deep into the fortress, the sounds of everything else were smothered, and while it would probably have its own bustle and beat on a normal day, on that day there was only quiet.

The soldier strode across the drawbridge and through the gates, one eye on the murder holes above, but there were no sudden movements, no pouring oil or burning sand. There wasn’t even the shift of a boot as some hidden figure shifted in place. There was only the quiet, out of place and all the more ominous for it.

The sight of the corpses settled him. It was funny in a morbid way, but as he hastened his steps, it was a situation he was more familiar with. Nat would have called him a knucklehead, but the presence of dead Targaryen men in their black and reds meant there was an enemy to fight, meant he was in the right place and not spinning in place while something important went down somewhere else. He glanced at the two men as he crossed the small courtyard of the Holdfast; one of them still had their sword sheathed and they’d been stabbed to death with small blades. They’d been taken by surprise, or hadn’t seen their killers as enemies.

Steve took his hammer in hand as he stepped into the interior of the castle, the front doors swinging open on silent hinges at his push. An antechamber was revealed, lit by what little natural light could enter through the arrow slits high up in the external walls. There was a small dragon skull mounted on one wall, made sinister by the shadows, but Steve didn’t give the richly appointed room more than a glance. Those guards hadn’t been dead long, and he had no time to waste.

He found a sweeping stone staircase, and took the stairs three at a time, heading upwards. The upper floors would be where the private areas were, and he could only assume that whatever force had killed the guards had the same targets he did, even if their objective seemed to be very different. If Elia and her kids were there, he had to get to them first, and if it was Aerys or Rhaegar…well, at least he’d be able to recreate a scene from his old show days.

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There was another body at the top of the stairs, a servant this time, his tunic soaked with blood and a dagger still sticking from his chest. There was also a man in a black cuirass crouching over him, in the process of rising at the sound of Steve’s approach. Steve looked him over in an instant. Black cuirass, black gambeson, sword on his hip - similar dress to the dead guards, but his gambeson was stitched with a different shade of red, and if Steve had learned anything about nobles in Westeros, it was that they were very particular about their colours. There was an empty dagger sheath at his hip, and Steve grabbed him by the neck as he passed, snapping it with a shake, hardly slowing.

Down the hall that the staircase had led to, two men emerged from one of the doors that dotted it. Again they were clad in the garb of the Targaryen guards, but the way they were tucking jewellery and gems into pouches and pockets said as much about their perfidy as the details of their armour. They saw Steve striding towards them, and one opened his mouth to shout, but that only made it a target, and a blink later Steve’s rondel knife was sticking from it, its tip piercing the back of his skull. The other man barely had time to look in shock before Steve was on him, grabbing him by the neck.

“Why are you here?” he asked. His voice was calm, for all that every inch of his bearing promised violence if he wasn’t answered.

“We - guards - Targ-,” the man managed to force out, scrabbling at the steel grip around his neck.

“You are not Targaryen men,” Steve told him. Targaryen men would not be spontaneously murdering servants. Looting, maybe, if they thought the Targaryens were finished, but in that case they would have been more worried about whoever had killed their supposed comrades. The man stopped trying to free himself and instead drew his dagger, the motion smooth despite everything. Steve didn’t give him a chance to use it.

The doors along the hall were all still open - the men he had just killed had searched them all and found nothing, so Steve turned back to the staircase, following it up again. A crash echoed down, and he vaulted up and over the railing, wasting no time. He reached the next floor just in time to see three men break through a door, crashing through together in a tumble.

There were fewer doors in this hall, and Steve was there quickly and quietly, listening from behind the door frame.

“Aye, these’re the Princess’s chambers alright,” one of the men said.

“Anyone home?” another asked.

“Don’t look like it,” the third answered. “What’s this?”

There was the sound of something metal clacking.

“Her Grace’s personal, uh…fuck, who cares. You sure there’s no one hiding in the next rooms?”

Footsteps sounded, and Steve readied himself to move, but there was only the sound of opening doors and a lack of haste.

“Nah, she ain’t here.”

“Pity for her. We woulda been gentler than Clegane; ten silvers he fucks her to death.”

“Don’t say that,” the second man said, shudder audible in his voice. “You saw what he did to those priests before he charged off alone.”

“Don’t remind me. ‘Ere, there’s Dornish Red in this.”

Steve eased around the door frame, looking into the room beyond. It was the receiving room of an apartment fit for royalty, filled with blacks and reds, but he also saw a tapestry hanging from the wall with colours he recognised from the Martells at Harrenhal. Three men stood with their backs to him, gathered around a small table with a pitcher on it by a window on the far side of the room. They wore the same armour as the three men he had killed on his way up.

“Reckon Lorch had any luck downstairs?”

“Ser Piggy couldn’t find his arse with both hands,” came the scornful reply. “Once we finish this, we’ll check the closets and under the beds. Wouldn’t do well for any little dragons to hide from us.”

Wordless agreements came, and Steve had heard enough. He stepped heavily through the doorway, expression flat and unforgiving as he stared the three men down. As one, the three men turned, only to freeze as they met his eyes.

He didn’t waste any words on them, and they didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. They rushed him, swords ringing free from sheaths, and he let them come. When the first reached him, he brought his leg up to kick him square in the chest. The harsh clang of a cuirass being caved in was quickly followed by shattering glass as Steve sent the man flying across the room and out through the window. The other two men found a sudden pressing need for distance, but it was too late, and Steve slapped one before backhanding the other, sending them reeling to the ground.

“How many of you are there?” Steve asked, looking down on the two dazed men. He knew they were there for Elia and her kids. He had names - Lorch and Clegane - and he knew Lorch was a knight. That would be enough to discover who sent them, but that was for after. “Are the rest of you all here in the Holdfast?”

One of the men staggered to his feet, and Steve pushed him over, sending him tumbling into the nearby table that held the pitcher of wine that had diverted them from their hunt for children. It fell to the floor with a clatter, spilling its contents like blood, and Steve felt his jaw clenching. ‘Wouldn’t do well for any little dragons to hide from us’, the man had said. Suddenly, he didn’t much care for any answers they might have. There were men with ill intent searching for children somewhere in the Holdfast. He would stop them.

The other man had gotten to his feet, woozily pulling a dagger, and Steve dismantled him with savage precision. He didn’t enjoy hurting people, but there was no time to fashion curtains into bindings. If he found some satisfaction in the way the man screamed, the man who was out to hunt children, who had spoken so easily of raping their mother, well. He was only a man. The other had his bones broken just as swiftly, and neither of them would be going anywhere under their own power any time soon.

Steve left the two broken men behind, stalking back out into the hall and towards the staircase. This ‘Lorch’ was searching downstairs, and he - he could hear a child crying, and the sound of cursing. Forward he sprinted, leaping over the balustrade at the top of the stairs to land on the level below. There was a screeched yowl, then an angry, pained bellow. Steve was already hurrying down, vaulting the staircase railing again to reach the ground floor once more, just in time to see a man in plate armour cross a hallway intersection deeper in the building, limping heavily and giving no attention to anything but what was ahead of him.

“Stop her!” came a furious shout. “Get in front of her you useless cunt!”

The long stretch of hallway was eaten up in seconds, and Steve turned the corner in time to see two men corralling a little girl between them, trapping her in the red stone hallway. The girl was sobbing, turning one way then the other in a vain search for safety, her dusky features splotchy and red. Fury filled him, the kind that he hadn’t known for a long time.

He slipped his shield from his arm.

The man-at-arms behind the little girl barely had time to register the thing that killed him. It hit him in the chest and then kept going, burying itself with a harsh rending of steel. By the time he realised that he had been knocked back and off his feet, he was dead.

“There’s something about men who hurt little girls,” Steve said, cutting his chin to the side, his eyes not moving an inch from the man who had to be Lorch. “I just don’t like them.”

“Who are…you.” The anger had leached swiftly from Lorch’s words, and as he turned to face Steve it was replaced by uncertainty. He was a stout man with an unfortunate face further marred by bleeding claw marks from scalp to cheek, and the build of his armour did little to help. It was clear why his men had called him ‘Ser Piggy’. He was favouring one leg, a bloody divot in the armour of one thigh.

Steve ignored him, looking past to the girl who had to be Elia’s daughter, Rhaenys. She was huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees and chocolate coloured hair covering her face, but she was peeking through, silent sobs still setting her small frame to heaving.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” Steve called to her. “Everything will be ok.”

Lorch half turned, as if to move towards her, only to immediately realise his mistake. Not because he left himself open, but because some instinct told him he had just done something terribly foolish. He finally seemed to notice the star on Steve’s chest, and fear bloomed in his eyes. “No, no wait-”

A blow to the throat left him gargling and then Steve was stepping past him, the whole sequence too fast for Lorch to do more than half draw his sword. The miserable excuse of a knight tried to support himself against the wall, fighting for breath with one hand at his throat, but to no avail. He was ignored as he collapsed and started to die, Steve’s attention on far more important things.

“Hey there Rhaenys,” Steve said, voice quiet. He knelt down a few steps shy of her, blocking her sight of Lorch’s death. “My name is Steve.”

Rhaenys watched him over her knees, her sobs easing into hiccups.

“I met your mother once,” Steve said, still quiet.

“Mama?” Rhaenys asked, dark eyes mistrustful. She wore a finely embroidered little dress, and its hem was splattered with blood.

“That’s right,” Steve said, smiling at her. “She stood up for me against some mean men.”

Rhaenys nodded firmly. “Mama is strong. Like the sun.”

“Do you know where your mama is?” Steve asked.

“Mama went to the garden with egg,” she told him, sniffling.

“And who stayed here with you?” he asked.

Rhaenys’ face crumpled at the question. “Uncle Loo, he hurt Uncle Loo. They were daddy’s men but they hurt Uncle Loo. He fell down.”

“They can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Steve told her. He remembered Lewyn Martell. For all they had met only briefly, if Rhaenys was fleeing alone through the Holdfast, the man had to be dead. “Your mama stood up for me, so I’m standing up for you, ok?”

A hiccup and a nod answered him. She started to shiver, and Steve cast around for a way to comfort her. He was interrupted by a plaintive meow.

Rhaenys’ face lit up, looking past him. “Kitty!”

A mrow answered her, and Steve glanced back to see a black cat hurrying along as best it could, one paw tucked to its chest and each hopping step clearly paining it. Still it hurried on, only stopping once it reached Rhaenys, butting into her legs.

Rhaenys was gentle as she gathered him up, cradling him to her chest. “Brave dragon Balerion,” she said into his fur, muffled. Balerion started to purr, licking at what parts of her forehead he could get at.

Steve cast his eyes about. In another situation he would find a room and defend it against all comers, but that wasn’t viable, not with his people still out there in the Keep against an unknown number of enemies, and Elia and her son still unsecured. The garden had to mean the Godswood - neither Yorick nor Kel had been sent there, but if he went there himself, it would be with Rhaenys on his hip, unless he found someone to defend her first, and with fake household guards having infiltrated the Keep, the only people he could trust to conscript to her defence would be the Kingsguard.

But no, that would take time, and leave Elia undefended for too long. He couldn’t assume she would be guarded, not when the Keep seemed to have all its defences down while infiltrators waltzed around as they pleased. He would hurry to the Godswood, and he would take Rhaenys with him.

“Rhaenys, we’re going to go and find your mama, ok?” Steve said.

The little princess raised her face from her cat’s fur. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t protest, either.

Steve thought about picking her up, but she was still clearly skittish. “I’m going to get some things. I won’t go far,” he told her.

“No don’t!” Rhaenys said, lurching to her knees. “Don’t leave me with the bad men.”

“The bad men can’t hurt you while I’m near,” Steve promised. “Do you want to come with me?”

Rhaenys nodded, getting up with her cat still clutched to her chest, though she’d clearly been taught how to properly hold him. She followed along as Steve found a nearby sitting room, stealing a throw blanket from a chaise, which he used to bundle up girl and cat before picking them up. She squirmed at the coldness of his armour even through the blanket, but Balerion’s nose poking at her cheek settled her. Steve stopped only to retrieve his shield, finding that the cap on it had broken again, twisted off its anchors when it had broken the guard’s cuirass. He tore the cap off entirely, slipping the shield back over his arm all the same and using it to cover the princess on his hip.

As he emerged from the Holdfast, he glimpsed the smoke rising from the city, his mouth setting in a hard line. The day was wearing on, but it wasn’t nearly over yet.