A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

The Soldier Who Would Save Them All IV

The city writhed and screamed with battle and blood, all semblance of order gone. Pockets of men fought and fled before turning to fight once more, finding themselves outnumbered by and outnumbering the foe in turns, the tides of street skirmishing ever shifting. The only constant were the bodies. Not all of them were soldiers.

Steve moved swiftly, taking long, loping strides that ate up the distance. Few of those he passed seemed willing to start something with the giant knight, and Steve was happy to ignore most in turn, save for those looting, or worse. Those, he took the time to correct. As he drew nearer to the thickest of the fighting, so too did the furrow of his brow deepen. By the time he reached streets that were more akin to charnel houses than city avenues, his jaw was set and his ire was rising. He continued on, the sound of combat ever rising.

The more frantic skirmishing was behind him, and he reached the streets where the thickest of the fighting had come and gone, leaving a hush in its wake. A bloodied man sat against a wall with his severed hand cradled in his lap, while two more leaned on each other as they staggered aimlessly, hardly seeming to know where they were. He couldn’t stop to help them.

Shattered stalls, looted homes, dead civilians - the consequence of armies set loose on a city with no regard for the people who lived there were all around, and were sure to be repeated everywhere the fighting spread. Steve witnessed it, and his ire continued to rise, and he grew angry. He could smell gunsmoke in the air, and he saw a hateful red banner trampled on the ground - but then he blinked, casting aside old memories. The smoke was from burning buildings, and the banner was the wrong shade of red.

The corpses carpeting the street grew fresher, some still dying, and then he was close enough to smell the worst of the fighting. The streets were packed with bodies as men strained against one another, mostly men-at-arms, but with the odd knight mixed in amongst them. The sound of fighting was a roar now, unending, an unholy mix of steel on steel and screaming men. He saw banners, but they were not the ones he sought. Not if he wanted to put an end to all this.

Going through the fighting would be needlessly bloody. Grabbing a knight to interrogate would take too long. Steve hardly slowed as he used an abandoned wagon as a launch point to propel himself up a nearby building. A window ledge served to get him the rest of the way up to the roof of the two story building, and then he was on the rooftops, running carefully across the rough shingles. Below, a man who was gaping up at him was almost brained for his distraction, but then Steve was gone.

From his new vantage point, Steve could divine the spread of the fighting better, for all that he could only see onto the streets nearest to him. It had spread outwards from the Lion Gate - he could see Lannister banners atop it, a gold lion on red - but the thick of the fighting had reached several blocks in, the push and pull of street fighting leaving the battle with messy and sweeping front lines. Robin had been right - this was a three way fight. Steve came to the end of the buildings and leapt across the gap to the next row. His sabatons slipped on the shingles as he landed, and he punched a fist through the rooftop to catch himself. There was more fighting in the next street over, but still no sign of the banners - the banner - that he needed.

A hornblast caught his ear, frantic and signalling something. It was no steady call trying to give commands, but instead a hurried alert. There were only so many things that would need to be warned of so quickly in a battle like this, and Steve turned towards it, leaping across another street, trusting in his gut. The smell of blood was thick in his nose in a way it hadn’t been in the other battles.

The great church was behind him when he came to a stop, leaning against a chimney. He looked down at a small square, taking in the melee. There was a fountain in the middle of it all, and so heavy was the fighting that it seemed to hold no water, only blood, sloshing and spilling as men fought even within it. Steve’s eyes barely glanced at it, however. They were fixed instead on the four knights carving through the ranks of Lannister men. Three of them wore armour that had once been white, but the fourth wore black. If there was any doubt to the identity of the man, it was dashed by the batlike wings that swept back on his helm. In a lighter moment, Steve might have accused him of copying his style, but in that moment, with the blood of hundreds soaking the ground and the blood of thousands more on his hands, Steve could only stare at Rhaegar with something close to hate.

The blowing of the horn was cut short when its wielder lost his head, but the cry was taken up from dozens of throats, telling of the prince, calling for more men, even as they surged towards him like a tide. The Kingsguard retaliated by butchering any who came near their charge, no matter if they were man-at-arms or hedge knight, and then they were pulling Rhaegar back, dragging him from the fight and towards the cover of a nearby building. Royalist men poured in to fill the gap they left behind, fighting and dying for their prince.

Steve watched as they vanished into what had once been a storefront - a bakery perhaps, or a butchery. It was clear the Kingsguard meant to remove Rhaegar from the worst of the fighting, but that wouldn’t be happening. Not before Steve had a word with him.

Another leap put him on the building that housed the store. There was a narrow alley behind it, between it and the next row of buildings, and Steve dropped down, bracing himself against each wall to slow his fall. He landed with only a faint clatter, nothing that would be heard over the battle beyond, and settled in to wait, easing his hammer from its harness. If the Kingsguard wanted to get Rhaegar out without wading back into the fighting, they would have to go through the alley.

It didn’t take long. A door was thrown open, and a knight in white armour stepped through, a black bat emblazoned on their helm. They were on the move as they looked to their left, towards the battle, but then they looked right, and froze.

Another Kingsguard emerged. “What is-” they cut themself off as they saw what their fellow had seen. Rhaegar and the final Kingsguard, Gerold Hightower, entered the alley and joined them in staring at the man who blocked their path. “Steve.”

“Arthur,” Steve said. For all that they had once fought together, there was no camaraderie in his voice.

“Stand aside,” the first Kingsguard ordered. He had been at the parley after the battle by the Kingsroad, a Whent.

“No.” Steve loosened his shoulders, preparing himself.

Rhaegar pushed forward, stepping past Arthur. “What is your purpose here?” he demanded, raising his visor. Flecks of blood had gotten through the black grate, spotting his cheek.

“I am going to take you hostage and force an end to the fighting,” Steve said. His hammer came up to rest over his shoulder, ominous in its intent.

Frustration twisted Rhaegar’s face, but only for a moment. “We do not need to fight, Ser Rogers! You are being used; Lord Oberyn too, someone is spreading falsehoods to turn-”

“I don’t care,” Steve said flatly. “The truth will out, but that can wait. Ending the fighting is more important.”

“There is more at play here than you can know,” Rhaegar said, impassioned. The chest of his armour glittered red, precious stones forming a dragon.

Steve didn’t care to hear it. “You are outnumbered and outfought. Your walls are breached and your enemies have free run of the Red Keep. The sooner you surrender, the sooner the people of the city will be safe.”

Gerold stepped forward, salt and pepper moustache twisting downwards. “You threaten the King,” he warned. “Lay down your hammer, Ser Rogers, or we will take you down.”

Steve tilted his head. “You want me to put the hammer down?”

Something in his tone put them on their guard. It didn’t help with what followed.

Whent moved first, sword leading the way, but only to draw attention from the dagger in his other hand. The misdirection meant little when Steve hurled his hammer down the alley, end over end, and its flanged head hit the man in the shoulder with such force that it spun him off his feet. The crunch of cracking bone and collapsing steel was louder than his anguished gasp. His sword arm would never be the same, but Steve had no sympathy for the man who had helped abduct Lyanna.

Hightower was next, the knight moving with strength and surety that belied his age. He struck at Steve with solid blows, not trying to target the joints of his armour, but to smite him over the head. Each strike was avoided with a quick step, or brushed aside with his broken shield, but Hightower kept pressing, his blows strong. Behind him, Arthur was pulling Rhaegar back, away from the fight. Steve pursed his lips. That wouldn’t do.

Steve stopped avoiding the strikes, but only so he could grab the blade outright. Hightower only had a moment to realise that his attempt to rip it free was futile before Steve punched him in the chest with his shield, cratering his breastplate and rocking him back and into Rhaegar - the prince had shaken off Arthur and tried to advance. They went down with a clatter, but before Steve even had a chance to step forward Arthur was there.

His sword was pale as the new moon, and from the way it sought out his throat despite his armour, Steve had a feeling it was more dangerous than it would seem. Arthur had a speed that Hightower had lacked, and long seconds passed as they dueled. Twice he had to catch blows on his shield, sharp chimes rising from the contact. On the second, Steve made to kick out Arthur’s knee, but the white-clad knight read the move in his shoulders and shifted, turning, even as his kite shield moved to strike Steve in the jaw.

A boxer’s shoulder roll saw the strike caught on his pauldron, and muscle memory had him moving smoothly into an uppercut. Blocked and out of position, Arthur’s shield had no chance of stopping a blow that he had no way to predict. A clang rang out, almost smothering the knight’s gasp of pain as he took the hit to the ribs. If he hadn’t been armoured, the fight would have been over then and there, but he was, and then Steve was avoiding a wide sweep of the pale sword.

Rhaegar had freed himself from the weight of his fallen guard, and he rushed forward to support Arthur, standing to his right. Short, quick thrusts kept Steve at bay long enough for Arthur to suck in a breath and recover, and then they were working together, long familiarity seeing them fight with skill sure to overwhelm any possible foe. When one struck, the other defended. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, Prince of the Realm and Sword of the Morning, raining down blows and weathering strikes from a man who was unarmed but for a broken shield.

On an open field, surrounding him, they could have made him sweat, bleed even. Even the shop they had passed through would have favoured them more. But they weren’t on an open field, or within the shop, and the narrow walls of the alley were not so friendly. Their school of combat was not made to face a man who could bend steel with his hands, and move fast enough enough to blur. They had been trained to fight knights, but Steve was a soldier long before he was ever a knight.

The pressure came to nothing, and Steve moved to end things. He stepped to his right, flush with the alley wall. Both of his foes were right handed, and now Rhaegar had to overextend past Arthur if he wanted to threaten. He took the smart move instead, stepping forward so they could bracket Steve, seeking advantage. It was the smart move - the obvious move. Steve let them build back into their rhythm of attack and defend, pressuring him from two angles now, and then he struck.

Rhaegar’s sword came for his face, and Steve let it. He tilted his head, feeling the blade scrape along the cheek of his helm instead of piercing his eye. Already he was countering, but again Arthur was there, angling to divert the blow, sword arm outstretched.

Between heartbeats, Steve’s feint became clear, but for all that Arthur’s widening eyes spoke of his realisation, his body was only human. Steve struck, prying a howl from the white knight. Jaime hadn’t said it outright, but his incoherent ramblings had been clue enough, and Steve didn’t think much of the way Arthur had left him. There were times when friend fought against friend, brother against brother, but a rough cloak to staunch the bleeding was so far from enough that he felt no remorse in what he had done. The palm strike had broken Arthur’s elbow with the ease another man might snap a branch for kindling, and a snap kick sent him tumbling away. Then, he turned to the prince.

His last protector felled, Rhaegar stood alone, expression set but undaunted. He swayed, feinting, trying to draw Steve’s shield out of position. It wasn’t the shield he needed to worry about.

Steve thought about all the people who had taken up arms because of what the young idiot had done, all the people who had lost their homes, their livelihoods, their lives, because he had stolen a young girl away from her family for who knew what purpose. Steve felt his jaw set and his brow furrow.

He made a fist.

Perhaps emboldened by Steve’s pause, Rhaegar made one last impassioned plea. “We can still come to-”

Steve punched him in the face.

The crack echoed through the alley, even above the fighting still going in the square beyond, and Rhaegar reeled back, blood spurting from his nose. Visor crushed, squint eyed and half blind from the sudden pain, the prince still tried to ward Steve off, but that just saw his sword wrenched from his hand, and his shield ripped from his arm. A poor punch came as a last ditch effort, earning nothing but jarred fingers when it bounced off Steve’s chin. The soldier grabbed the prince by the neck and shook him vigorously, and that was the end of any resistance. A rough pull saw the broken visor torn from the helm, revealing Rhaegar’s bloodied face to the world.

The alley wasn’t quiet, the fighting in the square beyond still ongoing, but it did feel hushed. Steve looked his fallen foes over; white might have been good for standing guard and being seen, but it was no colour for the battlefield, and now it only highlighted the marring of muck and battle. Gone was any aura of strength and prestige they might have had. Hightower was watching him from where he lay, wheezing hoarsely, and Went was insensate from the pain.

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Arthur was trying to get to his feet, shield abandoned and blade held in his left hand, broken arm hanging limply at his side. “Release him,” he demanded, though his command was threaded through with pain.

“Did you tell him about the wildfire?” Steve asked.

“Release him!” Arthur demanded again, on his feet now.

“Answer my question or I’ll kill him,” Steve said. His voice was flat, and his grip around the prince’s neck - the only thing keeping him upright - was steady. “Did you tell him about the wildfire?”

Arthur bared his teeth, as much in pain as fury, but jerked his head in a nod all the same.

“Did he send anyone to do anything about it?” Steve asked.

The pale sword rose, and Arthur took a step forward. In response, Steve held Rhaegar out in front of him, high enough that his feet were only brushing the ground. He was stirring feebly, head lolling.

“No! He gave no order - making the caches safe is too dangerous amidst the fighting,” Arthur said. He fumed helplessly, the pain of his arm and the threat to his prince strangling his composure.

Steve eyed the man, shifting Rhaegar to the side so as to better meet Arthur’s eyes. “Last question,” he said. “Did you help Rhaegar abduct Lyanna Stark?”

Whatever Arthur had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “What? The king- Aerys was the one who seized her.” Befuddlement rose above pain, even if only for a moment.

For long moments, Steve stared the wounded knight down. He nodded slowly, gut instinct telling him that it was the truth. Either lack of opportunity or lack or will had seen the truth of Lyanna’s disappearance remain hidden from him - either way, it was one less thing to hold against the man. “Alright. I’m going to end the fighting now. There’s two ways this can go.”

Arthur tensed. His eyes were fixed on Steve, for all that his posture was fixed on Rhaegar.

“You can make the smart choice and come with me while I do it,” Steve continued, “or you can make the dumb choice and stay here.”

For a moment, Arthur considered it. But only for a moment, and Steve saw the instant he made his decision, read the shift of his shoulders that would see him lunge forward, pale sword angling past Rhaegar where Steve’s shield couldn’t be brought to bear, towards his head.

Steve didn’t much feel like getting stabbed in the face, and he was already moving, first to foul the lunge with Rhaegar, then to deflect the follow up strike with his shield as he turned. He committed to the movement, raising one leg, and his reverse roundhouse kick caught Arthur square in the head as he was recovering to strike again. He dropped, boneless. The sound of the first deflection overlapped with the clatter of his collapse, and then the alley was still.

The soldier looked his fallen foes over. They were in no state to contest him, and gone was the lustre and aura given by their white armour and cloaks. Now they were just broken men laying in the trash of a filthy alley, the man they had sought to protect held by the scruff of his neck, his head lolling senselessly.

A scream rose from the fighting in the square, and Steve’s gaze flicked towards it. His steps were louder than they should have been as he began to walk. Hightower grabbed his ankle as he passed, but Steve ignored him, stepping through the grab without effort, and the pause to take up his hammer and stow it away slowed him for longer. A stack of barrels half blocked the way, but they were no barrier. The end of the alley loomed, as did the fighting beyond it.

When Steve stepped out into the square, the fighting did not suddenly stop. Men of the Crownlands were too busy trying to kill men in red armour, struggling and dying over cobblestones, knights scattered in amongst them on both sides. As he advanced, however, men started to notice him. Started to notice the star on his chest, and the armour of the man he held up by the neck, treating him like an unruly kitten. The fighting did not stop, but realisation did begin to ripple outwards, as those nearest realised just who he was, and who he carried.

Men-at-arms eyes him, unsure, doubting the evidence of their eyes. Some muttered to each other, or shook knights by the shoulder to get their attention, but Steve paid them little attention. His eyes were on a broken cart at the edge of the square, and the small body that lay pinned under it, unmoving. His jaw clenched.

“Is that-”

“-no, it can’t-”

“-it is, look at the rubies-”

For the avoidance of doubt, Steve grabbed Rhaegar’s helm and pulled it off roughly, before doing the same with his maille coif, and then the coif of fabric under it. Silver hair was freed for all to see, some wavering in the breeze, some getting stuck to his bloodied face. There could be no denying who it was the white star lord held then, and those who witnessed it began to turn from the fighting, stepping back if they could.

The royal hung limply in Steve’s grip. It took only a few long heartbeats before the first group rushed him.

Steve backhanded the first, not even bothering with his shield. He felt the jaw break under the blow, even as he shoved Rhaegar in the face of the next man. He slapped another, sending him spinning to the ground, and then two men who had been stymied by his human shield got around Rhaegar just in time to receive another backhand and slap. The absurdity of the action combined with the violence of the blows made most others rethink the wisdom of attacking him. More began to notice, even beyond the lines of the fighting, but still it didn’t stop. Someone sounded a horn.

A knight charged him, bellowing something with his war pick held back to strike overhead, as if Steve couldn’t see him preparing to lead with a shield bash. Steve held Rhaegar to the side, out of the way, but only so he could skip forward and kick the knight in the chest. He went flying, bellow cut short with a horrific gurgle. He would have covered half the square before landing, but he met a group of soldiers and knocked them down in a tumble. He didn’t rise - he had been dead before he hit the ground.

Steve continued to advance, and men scattered before him, almost falling over themselves to stay out of arms reach, as if that would save them, as if that would protect them from the consequences of their actions. He didn’t look at the small, half crushed body beneath the broken cart, but he didn’t need to, not when the image was brutally clear in his mind’s eye.

The soldier neared the fountain. The waters within it were still red, and two bodies lay half submerged in it, face down. He paid no attention to the two knights still standing in it, or the way they broke away from each other when he stepped up onto the wall of the basin. He only turned towards the bulk of the fighting, and raised his hostage high. The fighting began to slow.

Perhaps that would have been enough, but it hardly mattered. Not as the clatter of hooves heralded the arrival of a party of knights on horseback, led by a lord that Steve recognised. The crimson sash he wore over his armour was spotted with blood, and his sword was sheathed, but from the way his men in the square reacted to his appearance he might as well have been brandishing a loaded gun. Tywin Lannister met Steve’s gaze across the square, and neither man blinked. He raised a hand to his shoulder, and made a fist.

The fighting stopped.

Horseshoes clopped loudly against the cobblestones as Lannister began to walk his mount forward, and the dozen or so riders - their armour was fine, and all wore personal sigils, they had to be lords - with him followed. A path through the packs of Westerland men flowed open, all the way to where the line of Crownlands men still stood. In the face of the party of lords they shifted and drew back, on the verge of faltering, but then a knight stamped his foot and stepped forward, and the line held.

Lannister ignored them, looking over their heads at Steve like they weren’t there. The armet helm he wore had two parts to its visor, one for the eyes, and other for the mouth, and only the top one was open. Green eyes dissected the sight before him.

Steve inspected him in turn, even as he lowered Rhaegar back down, the man’s feet brushing the ground. For all he had met the man briefly all that time ago on his first visit to King’s Landing, he had spent more time talking to Jaime during the feast. He looked strong, but that was almost a given when you were wearing plate armour with a gilded lion’s head on the chest and riding a champion destrier. Steve didn’t know him from Adam, had barely shared words with him, was apparently on the same side of the war as him, but for some reason…he just didn’t like him.

“America,” the lord noted, breaking the stare down. “You claimed you would not interfere.”

“I said my men wouldn’t interfere,” Steve corrected him. “I’m here alone.”

Tywin stared at him for long moments, expression flat. “Give him to me,” the lion ordered. There was no uncertainty in whom he meant.

“No.”

Lannister barely blinked, but the lords with him who had been watching the men-at-arms were quick to shift their attention to Steve. One near the front was clearly scowling, even with his expression hidden by his visor. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ NoveI~Fire.net

“You presume-”

From where his hands lay in his lap, holding his reins, Lannister lifted one hand. The small gesture saw the lord stop immediately.

“I do presume,” Steve said, voice short. Somewhere, a man helped another to the ground, his injury too much to remain standing, even as they tried not to draw attention or miss anything. “There’s been enough fighting. The people of the city have suffered enough. With Rhaegar captured, the loyalists-”

“The fighting will end when the city is made safe,” Lannister said, clinical and cold. “You presume far too much to think that your position entitles you to give me orders.”

Steve’s gaze flicked towards the broken cart, and his head lowered. There was nothing submissive about the movement. “I wouldn’t think that any decent lord would need it to be an order.”

More men shifted. Someone hissed a question and was hushed, and Steve could hear movement behind himself, over near the alley he had emerged from, but he stayed focused.

Lannister eyed him coldly. “Your feats are notable, and your reputation impressive, for a stranger to these lands. But you have erred - if you do not surrender the Prince to me and accept a place with my leal men, no amount of past feats or reputation will protect you from those you have insulted.”

“I’m not the one here who needs protecting, Lannister,” Steve said, his voice low. “If you decide this needs to be a fight, you won’t have time to draw that sword.” There were politics here he was trampling all over, he knew, and noble pride besides, but he was having trouble caring in the face of the fury building steadily in his chest.

Lannister’s nostrils flared, but the only other sign of his offence was to tighten his grip on his reins. He turned, readying to give an order - but then he was interrupted.

“LANNISTER!”

On the south side of the square, a man appeared from a curving street. He was alone, mounted on a black sand steed with a mane of red, and he was brimming with rage as he pointed his spear at Lannister. It had clearly seen hard use that day, a tassel tied near to its blade matted with blood. Despite the man appearing alone, both sides in the square shifted ever so slightly, as if reorientating to face a new threat. From his position in the thick of it, amongst the Crownlanders, Steve recognised the newcomer’s face, free from any helm.

“Martell,” Lannister said. His expression hardly changed, but his tone still managed to convey a sneer.

“Run from me again and I will hunt you down like a dog,” Oberyn Martell told him. His plate armour, a burnt orange, caught the light of the sun as he leaned forward to almost hiss his words. His pauldrons were patterned with scales, and his voice reached all in the square.

“I have no interest in your petty grievances,” Lannister said. Steve could make out the faintest twitching at the corner of his eye.

From around the bend in the same street Oberyn had emerged from, a party of riders appeared at a gallop. They were Dornish, bearing arms and armour that marked them lords just as much as those that surrounded Lannister, and they only slowed when they reached Oberyn.

Oberyn didn’t seem to have noticed their arrival as he glared daggers at Lannister. The words only seemed to have stoked his anger. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That Dorne would allow Elia to be replaced by your daughter and see it as but a petty grievance?!”

“A delusion, to think I would offer my daughter to Rhaegar,” Lannister said, dismissive. “He thought he could offer me Rhaenys.”

The Dornish lords with Oberyn didn’t like that, and Steve spied a familiar sigil amongst them - three big cats, black, on a background of yellow and orange.

“You can sort out your problems later,” Steve said, interrupting sharply and drawing the attention of both parties. “Duel each other if you have to, but the fighting in the city is going to end now.”

“The fighting will not end until I have the heads of those who thought to treat my sister like trash to be disposed of, and my niece as a prize to give,” Oberyn said, near to snarling. He seemed to speak before he even registered who he was responding to, but then he blinked and looked to the star on Steve’s chest. His gaze went to the silver haired man hanging from his grip, and he blinked again.

“If you care so much for her, why didn’t you make sure your family was safe before you set the city on fire?” Steve asked of him. He flexed his free hand, as if to help in taking a tighter grip on his fraying temper. He was only somewhat successful.

Oberyn dragged his eyes away from Rhaegar. “They slipped out of the Keep this morning, before we even entered the city.”

“No, they didn’t.”

Oberyn seemed to forget Lannister entirely. “Explain,” he demanded. The tramp of boots on stone began to sound, a mob of men-at-arms jogging round the bend behind him and his lords, Dornishmen left behind in their haste, but Oberyn gave no sign of hearing them.

“Elia was picnicking in the Godswood with her son. Rhaenys was with your uncle in Maegor’s Holdfast,” Steve said. He could see Lannister speaking quietly to the man beside him from the corner of his eye. “If I’d been a minute slower in reaching them, all three would be dead.”

The Dornishman didn’t react for a long moment. Then, he turned towards Lannister. “You dare,” he breathed, so softly that outside his companions, only Steve likely heard it. “You dare!” he repeated, louder this time. His men were forming up behind him, spears at the ready.

The look Lannister gave him was withering. “Your thoughtlessness may have interfered in my plans, but only a true fool would think I wouldn’t take steps to secure the royal family.”

“You meant to butcher them you-”

“-act as an undisciplined child-”

Steve watched as the two lords began to squabble and argue, insulting and threatening with each breath, hardly listening to each other. All around the square, the common men who had already spent the morning fighting and dying for the ambitions of their lords began to ready themselves for conflict to break out once more. All around the city, the people continued to suffer because those lords didn’t think it was worth the effort of holding them to the lowest of standards. He could feel his pulse starting to thunder through his veins, and he tried to use a breathing cycle that Bruce had taught him, but for some reason, it just didn’t seem to be working. The grip he had on Rhaegar’s armour began to warp the metal.

“Enough.”

Silence fell.

“I am not an angry man,” Steve said, more to himself than to the others. He closed his eyes, taking a breath, and when he opened them again they were like chips of ice. “What reason do you want to hear?” His words seemed to loom over those listening. “That you should stop because there is no point in continuing? Because stopping will spare the people of this city from further grief and suffering?” His jaw clenched, brows lowering as he spoke with deliberate calm. “How about because I have your son, Lannister? Because I have Elia and her children, Oberyn? If you won’t stop because it’s the right thing to do, should I threaten those you care about?”

The words spurred something in the two lords, and for all they were opposites, the looks in their eyes as they glared at him was the same, but Steve had no time for their selfish offense.

“If you can’t muster a single fucking breath of empathy for the people your fighting is trampling over, maybe you’ll stop if I threaten to hurt those you do care for?!” His voice had risen until it filled the square, and every man present seemed to hold their breath as the last echoes faded, none wanting to draw his eye. “I am not an angry man,” he said again, quieter now, “but this place keeps giving me reasons to be angry.”

He looked again at the small body. The boy had tried to hide under the cart or stall or whatever it had been, only for it to be swept over and trampled in the melee, and the child with it.

“If you touch a hair on Elia’s head, I will burn everything you love,” Oberyn said. There was no anger to his words, no raised voice, only a promise and cold hate.

“You’re not listening,” Steve said, almost grinding out the words. “If you won’t-”

Lannister’s patience had run out, and he cut his chin to the side. “Take them.”

Steve reached for his hammer.