In the time it took him to free it from its harness, cock back his arm, and hurl it like a javelin, Tywin Lannister had pulled his sword halfway from its sheath. The spike on the top of his hammer took the man in the elbow, piercing through the joint of his armour and the elbow itself with ease - and then the hammer’s head hit.
The wail of agony that erupted from Lannister’s throat when his arm was torn off at the elbow by the thrown hammer was almost enough to stop the fighting before it could properly begin, but then the Dornish were charging. By the time the lion lord had hit the ground, torn backwards from his saddle by the force of the blow, the melee had erupted once more.
The battle lines melted away from Steve as he strode forward, stepping down from the fountain with a violent intent that was written plainly on his face and in his shoulders. Half the lords with Lannister had turned to aid him, but the other half were breaking through the fighting to get to Steve, warhorses battering footmen out of the way. He was happy to meet them halfway.
Rhaegar chose that moment to make his move, a hidden dagger lashing towards his face. Steve shook him senseless again, and broke the arm holding the dagger as he disarmed him. Then the first of the enemy lords was nearly upon him. They thought to ride him down, that he had been a fool to put himself in that position, that they would crush him under the weight of their charge, flank to flank with no room to slip between them.
Steve accelerated, shoulder charging the lead rider head on. He felt a brief moment of pity for the horse as he caved in its chest, killing it instantly. Its barding was no protection against his mass and force, and it went limp as its rider jerked in the saddle, all momentum robbed from it as it collapsed. The other riders barely had time to understand what had happened, let alone turn, and Steve elbowed the recovering leader in the head as he stepped past.
The gap that they had left in the melee was still there, fighting yet to spill over the screaming and still bodies. For some reason, none of the fighters seemed quick to fill it, and Steve walked through the lines unaccosted, dragging the weakly groaning prince behind him by the scruff of his armour.
The lords who had stayed to attend to Lannister noticed his approach, sudden alarm in their eyes. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him that those who had first charged had been caught up in the fighting behind him, leaving nothing between him and his goal. Well, almost nothing.
One man was quick to leap back into his saddle, horse surging forward before he was fully mounted and sword already raised up in a show of skill and daring. He was on him within a heartbeat, and Steve redirected the falling blow with his vambrace without slowing his stride. In the same motion, Steve grabbed his sword arm by the wrist and held tight, not missing a step. The same momentum that the lord had thought to use against him was his undoing as he was ripped from his saddle to kiss the bloody cobblestones. The soldier let him go and kept walking.
Disbelieving words threaded with strangled panic saw the last of Lannister’s retinue rise to face him, giving Steve a glimpse of the man in the process. Someone had gotten a tourniquet around the stump of his right arm, and someone’s cloak was propping his head up like a pillow. For a single heartbeat, Steve met Tywin’s eyes, inevitability against denial, but then the moment passed and he dismissed the pale and shivering lord.
Crippling a man wasn’t very Christ-like of him, but he was struggling to find even an ounce of forgiveness for the one who had likely sent men to murder a woman and her two children, whose orders had gotten Yorick and his men killed, who would rather see the slaughter continue to wring out another inch of advantage than put a stop to it and keep what he had already won.
The retinue reached him, and he was not gentle.
No, he wasn’t feeling very Christ-like, wasn’t living up to the Word and the Way - but there was more than one Testament, and the Old had things to say about how to deal with those that wronged you, even if he tried to be better than that. He was not an angry man, but he was still just a man, and as he came to a stop standing over the man he had crippled, he wasn’t sure what he would do next.
Dozens of families had been drowned at Castamere, they’d said. Children, the elderly. Steve had long thought he would never kill a defenceless, already beaten man…but he had never had a man like Zola in his grip, had never had to liberate a concentration camp, had never had Thanos powerless before him.
He looked around the square; the fighting was ongoing, the royalists and Westerlands men striving against each other and a wedge of furious Dornishmen led by Oberyn. The fighting was continuing out in the city. There were families dying there, too.
If he didn’t have Tywin, he couldn’t force his men to lay down their arms.
Steve closed his eyes and thought something deeply unChristian to himself. Then he dropped Rhaegar and knelt, peeling back the remnants of the armour on Lannister’s stump to give himself room to fix the poor tourniquet that had slowed his blood loss. Maybe the man deserved to die for what he had done, but if Steve could save lives by keeping him alive, he would. That it meant he didn’t have to tell Jaime he’d killed his father eased the cold burning in his gut, but only a little.
The Lannister lord was watching him work, staying conscious through sheer will and grinding teeth even as he shivered, shock settling in. Whoever had propped his head up had removed his helm and coifs too, saving Steve the trouble. His golden hair had started to thin, made worse by an unfortunate case of helmet hair.
Steve stayed silent, and there seemed to be a bubble of quietness around them, the noise of battle somehow muted. Lannister sucked in an agonised breath as the tourniquet was tightened properly but otherwise didn’t make a sound. His remaining gauntlet was pulled off so Steve could check his pulse, finding it as well as could be expected. A high scream from some poor soldier choked off midway, and he shifted to checking for a waterskin, but had no luck. The mounts of the fallen had not fled, held together under the supervision of three terrified squires, but there was no time to go and check them. The Dornish were advancing.
Seeing what had become of their lord and their king had done the morale of the Westerlanders and Crownlanders no good, and they were stepping back under the Dornish assault - not giving way, but hardly shedding blood for every step. Here and there were knights stepping up, bellowing orders to try and rally their men, but the Dornish had been animated by the spirit of Oberyn’s fury, and they were still advancing. Steve saw a spear rise, an arc of blood flung from it, and then the two lines were pushed back far enough for the Dornish to have a narrow path to his side of the square. Oberyn wasted no time, blazing eyes fixed on the two downed men beside Steve. His sand steed was flecked with blood, and it strode forward with heavy stamps of its hooves, tossing its head. Some of his retinue followed, but most stayed amongst the melee.
Steve rose, stepping over Lannister to put himself between his hostages and Oberyn. He waited, and something about his complete lack of worry over his missing weapon made most of the approaching men’s hindbrains wary. At one of Oberyn’s shoulders was Deryk Vaith, the man whose family Steve and his companions had befriended at Harrenhal. There was no geniality on his face this time though, only a mottled bruise showing through a broken visor. They drew ever nearer, and Steve set himself to attack.
Oberyn pulled his horse up short, slipping off the mount in the same movement; those with him were forced to stop as well. He prowled forward, spear pointed down with its end tucked against his shoulder. His gaze flicked between Steve and the hostages as his retinue sorted themselves - the soldiers who had followed were turned to keep the ongoing melee from spilling onto them from behind, while Deryk and the two other knights or lords started to drift to the sides.
“Give them to me,” Oberyn said, coming to a stop just within spear reach. “I will have my pound of flesh.”
Steve ignored his words. “I won’t harm Elia, Oberyn. She’s safe, but if you want to pick this fight, you won’t be.”
The Dornish Prince paused at his words, but only for a moment. “Where is she?” he asked. His tone was suspiciously flat.
“Protected by my company at the West Goldcloak Barracks,” Steve said.
“You left her amongst soldiers!?” he said, fury and fear rising in him.
Steve found his lips rising in a snarl. “My soldiers aren’t animals who can’t be trusted around civilians, unlike some. My soldiers gave their lives to save her and Aegon.” He breathed out through his nose, nostrils flaring. “Send word to your men to lay down arms, and I’ll take you to her right now.”
The melee continued around them, lines bulging closer, but then falling back, pushing and pulling like the tide. The three men with the prince continued to step slowly outwards, as if he wouldn’t notice them moving to flank. Steve bent down, picking up the gauntlet he had removed from Lannister, even as he kept his eyes on Oberyn.
Oberyn ignored it all, staring at Steve. Some of his hair had escaped the tie it was in, and a bead of sweat slid down his temple, tinted red by someone else’s blood. “You say that you rode ahead of the rebel army with only your men, took the Goldcloak barracks, broke through the defences of the Red Keep, saved my sister from certain death despite her escaping it this morning - and you will just hand her to me, if only I have my army surrender?” His grip tightened on his spear. “You think me a fool.”
“She was wearing an ankle length dress, burnt orange, with slits in the sleeves, and a topaz- if your men take one more step to flank me, I’m going to kill one of them with this gauntlet.”
Deryk and the other two froze, even before Oberyn raised his empty hand to them. The look in his eyes told the story of what would come next, however.
“Your sister is safe and protected,” Steve said, trying one last time. “The fighting can end now. The city can be spared more pain. I give you my word.”
To his surprise, Oberyn seemed to consider it. “Your word, Lannister, the prince,” he said. “You take me to Elia, and then I will give the order.”
Steve did the math. Considered what he would likely do to the two prisoners under Steve’s power, how long it would take to escort Oberyn halfway across the city to the Barracks, convince him that Elia was safe, and then send word to stop the fighting. The answer he came to didn’t satisfy him.
“The fighting stops first,” he began, but even as he started he knew it was a waste as all the emotion that the Dornishman had been strangling came flooding back into his face.
Oberyn whipped his spear up even as he lunged forward, aiming for Steve’s throat.
Steve didn’t move. He waited for the spear to near, and then grabbed it below the head, stopping it in place. Oberyn didn’t even try to free it from his grip, instead setting the butt of the spear to his shoulder and putting his full weight behind it.
Stolen from NovelBin, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
It didn’t move an inch.
One of his lords had taken the initiative to rush forward, thinking Steve pinned in place. He received a gauntlet to the head for his troubles, and he collapsed forward, a twitch of his head at the last moment seeing it clip him on its way past, rather than hit him square in the face, but he still wouldn’t be getting up or seeing straight any time soon.
Deryk and the other knight were still coming, mace and sword aiming for his elbow and his neck. Steve shifted, meeting the swordsman with a boot to the chest and fouling Deryk’s strike in the same move. Oberyn had pulled a knife and stepped forward, lashing out with it to try and force Steve to release his spear, but that just brought him within arm’s reach.
Steve gave him what he wanted, but not in the way he wanted it. A twist of his wrist saw the spear head snapped from its haft, and then he punched Oberyn in the face.
It wasn’t as satisfying as doing the same to Rhaegar, but it was satisfying all the same. The lord he had kicked hit the ground as Oberyn’s head snapped back, nose squashed and bleeding. He was disorientated and open to a finishing blow - but then Deryk was there, rushing to defend his commander. Steve caught the high mace strike with his shield, but more to block his vision; in the same moment his foot snapped out to sweep the leg, and Deryk was on the ground a breath later.
A broken spear haft thrust towards his face, but Steve snapped his head to the side and stepped forward for the first time in the fight. Oberyn could squint through the pain just enough to see a steel helm looming large in his vision.
X
Steve set the last of his hostages down against the fountain. They were in varying states of consciousness, and around the square, the fighting was finally coming to a stop as word spread through the ranks. He could hear strained discussions as petty lords and knights argued over what to do in the face of the man who had walked into the fight and simply seized their commanders. No one tried anything.
“Deryk,” Steve called. “How are the ribs?”
“Battered,” came the pained reply as he limped closer. Deryk had rushed him once more after he had downed Oberyn, and received a fist to the side for his efforts. He still had his mace and shield, but in the face of Steve standing over the brother of his liege lord, decided not to start anything.
“Do you have the authority to negotiate in Oberyn’s place?” Steve asked, still staring down at his hostages. Broken nose and enormous goose egg, broken nose and arm, missing arm - none would be going anywhere under their own power in a hurry, but he had still placed them just far enough away from each other for it to be an effort to reach out with violent intent.
“Not for what you want, Lord America,” Deryk said. “Lord Yronwood is the man you would wish to speak with.”
Steve gave a hum. “Send a runner. Tell him that I’ve threatened Oberyn’s life if I don’t get my way. The fighting stops, and no harm is to be done to civilians.”
Deryk winced, but nodded. “Yes. This is public enough that…yes, I will do so.” He gave Oberyn one last look, and stepped painfully away to see to it.
“You three,” Steve said, raising his voice. The targets of his focus blanched; two looked over their shoulders as if hoping there was another group of three behind them who had drawn his attention, while the third pointed at themselves. “Yes, you. Come here.”
The Westerland squires who had been trying very hard not to be noticed somehow managed to both trudge and scurry over to him, too nervous to think to leave the horses they were minding behind. When they were before him, they struggled to keep their gazes above his feet.
“Chins up,” Steve barked. “Backs straight.”
The squires snapped to something close to attention, and Steve nodded in approval.
“Un, deux, trois,” he said, pointing at them in turn. “Un, you’re going to help my hostages - give them water and any food you’ve got in those saddles. Deux, Trois, in that alley over there are some more wounded knights. You’ll do the same for them.” He could already see the soldiers in the rest of the square starting to give aid to their own wounded, and was glad that he wouldn’t have to remind them. “Understood?”
“Aye ser!” the squires blurted out. They made to move, but then seemed to strain in place, unwilling to leave without permission.
Steve gave it with a gesture, mind turning to the next problem as they hurried off. “Targaryen,” he said, “who is your second in command?”
Rhaegar looked up at him. For a long moment he seemed to be staring through Steve, but then his gaze regained clarity. “Hightower,” he managed.
“Someone I haven’t already beaten up,” Steve said, tone short.
“Connington. Jon.” Maybe it was the blunt force trauma, or maybe it was the denial, but the prince - king, now - didn’t seem to be fully present.
“Where is he?”
“Near…the Street of Steel.”
Steve turned from the man and looked around for royalist lords, but they were thin on the ground and hesitant to meet his gaze besides. He found one, pointed at him, and then pointed at the ground in front of him.
The lord pointed at himself.
Steve nodded.
The lord looked hesitant.
Steve raised his brows, unamused.
The lord came.
“Jon Connington is supposedly near the Street of Steel,” Steve told the man; he wasn’t a high lord, but his armour was nice enough that he was either successful at tourneys or lord enough to be listened to. “Find him, and tell him that if he doesn’t order a general stand down and start policing his forces, I’ll kill Rhaegar. Do you understand?”
A nod said yes, and a gesture sent him on his way.
When Steve turned to his next target, the man was already waiting. “Lannister-”
“Lord Kevan. My brother.” The words were forced out, threaded with pain, and there was a heavy sheen of sweat on his brow, but he was meeting Steve’s eyes all the same. He took another sip from the waterskin that Un was holding for him as he knelt at his side. “He holds the Lion Gate.”
Steve nodded. He looked for a messenger and found the remaining Westerland lords that had first tried to ride him down. He pointed at one of them, then pointed at the ground in front of him. The lord came.
“You are going to-”
“Lord Lefford of the Golden Tooth, Lord America,” the man said, even as he dragged his eyes off Lannister’s arm.
Steve blinked. “Lord Lefford, you are going to ride to the Lion Gate and tell Lord Kevan that I have threatened Lord Lannister’s life if he does not order his soldiers to lay down their arms and pull his forces back to the Gate. No more civilians are to be harmed. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Lord Amer-.”
“Go.”
He went.
Orders given, and with time to burn before more could be done, Steve turned back to his hostages, dismissing Un with a jerk of his head. He stayed silent as he waited for the squire to leave earshot. There was no hint of pride or joy or anything on his face to suggest that he recognised the victory he was on the cusp of, and even Oberyn found the look in his eyes sobering from the way he managed to focus. Steve looked down on them, and flexed his hand, making a fist.
“You’re going to listen to me now.”
Something in his tone had the three proud lords still, no longer shifting with the pain of their injuries. All of them had been children once, all remembered the dread that came from being called to account by a higher figure, and in that moment they felt it again.
“There are caches of wildfire stored all around this city.”
Whatever they had been expecting, it was not that. Lannister managed to go even paler.
“It is hidden under the city gates, the Sept, the Dragonpit, and more,” Steve continued, tone even and measured. Only the straining creak of his gauntlet betrayed his feelings. “Everyone in this city is one looter with a torch away from a painful, fiery death.” He took a breath. “When your seconds get here, you are going to tell them to stand down. You are going to tell them to get control of their men. You are going to tell them that the war is over. You are going to do this because it is the right thing to do, and if that isn’t enough, because not doing so could kill us all.”
Deux and Trois had emerged from the alley, giving Steve even wider eyed looks than before, as they hurried over to the horses to get supplies to take back. He waited for them to leave before speaking again.
“Whatever ambitions you had for today, whatever grudges you wanted to settle - forget them. They’re done.”
None of his audience were happy to be spoken to in such a way, but they had no choice but to sit there and listen.
“Jaime is safe. A doctor is seeing to his injuries. Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon are safe. Ser Keladry - a lady knight - is watching over them. No harm will come to any of them while they are under my protection.” To Steve’s disgust, his mention of Kel got as large a reaction as his mention of wildfire. “I will-”
Steve’s arm snapped up, and nobles couldn’t help but flinch. When they mastered themselves, they saw Steve holding his fist in front of his face - and the crossbow bolt he held in it. His head turned slowly, deliberately, towards the window that the bolt had come from. It was behind the royalist lines. Without looking away, he tossed the bolt into Rhaegar’s lap.
“I will not hold their safety against you,” he said as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “But if you try to play games with the life of the city on the line, I will cut my losses and move on.” He didn’t clarify what this might mean, instead letting their imaginations fill in the gaps. “Nod if you understand.”
Three nods came, though none came swift. Oberyn’s eyes were fixed on the bolt. It would do, and Steve turned to call Un back, when he was stopped.
“You only threatened me,” Rhaegar said. His tone was nasal, his broken nose doing him no favours.
“Excuse me.”
“You only threatened me,” Rhaegar repeated himself. “You said to say that you’d threatened Tywin and Oberyn, but you only threatened me.”
Steve looked at him for a long moment. “Rhaegar Targaryen,” he said, and there was a core of contempt to his tone. “Twelve months.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Twelve months. That’s how long I’ve been fighting here, and not in Essos. Killing ordinary men here, and not slavers in Essos. Overthrowing a king here, and not freeing slaves in Essos. Twelve. Months.” Steve stared hard at the man, unblinking. “Do you know how many dead and suffering innocents that is?”
Rhaegar had no answer for him, and Steve was thankful, because he wasn’t sure how he would’ve reacted to any excuse the man tried to offer up for what he had done. He had a sudden urge to distance himself from them, and he turned away, gesturing with his chin for Un to get back to helping. The boy hurried to it, handing waterskins to Oberyn and Rhaegar but kneeling next to Lannister once more.
The broken cart caught his eye once again, and Steve began to walk towards it, dozens of eyes tracking him warily. The hostages would know better than to try and flee, and if they didn’t they’d learn. His anger started to come back as he reached the debris. Dust and blood stained the child’s face, and for a moment Steve was taken back to New York, to Sokovia, to Lagos. He breathed and he was back in King’s Landing, looking down on a dead kid who was caught between the armies of men who only cared about their own.
The soldier knelt down, carefully shifting what was left of the cart off the body. He gathered the kid up as if they were made of glass, holding them close to his chest, and began to walk back to the fountain. The basin wall was broad, and he set the child down on it, carefully, gently. The water in the fountain was less clouded with blood than it had been, though there were still two corpses in it. He would see to them soon, but the kid couldn’t just be left there in the open.
The white star on his chest was smeared with blood and dust, but he paid no attention to it as he stepped back to his hostages. They were watching him as best they could, wondering what he was doing as he stepped right up to them, and they got their answer as he leant over Rhaegar to pull at his red cloak. It was an enormously impractical thing to wear into battle, so there had to be some kind of quick release - Rhaegar lashed out, the crossbow bolt held in a tight grip and stabbing for his eye.
Steve grabbed the offending arm and stood, lifting Rhaegar into the air by it and leaving him dangling. He gave a sharp tug on the cloak and it came free, and he tossed it over his shoulder. Then he punched Rhaegar again, pushing his nose further across his face, and dropped him. Oberyn gave a pained laugh through his own broken nose, but Steve ignored him.
The red cloak was draped over the child’s body, giving them some dignity in death, and Steve tried not to think of how it was likely worth more than every meal and every possession the kid had ever had.
A young man - more a boy - had stepped into the fountain and was trying to lift one of the bodies from it. Steve met his eyes, and gave him a nod. Soon, men-at-arms all around the square were starting to follow in his footsteps, gathering the bodies of their comrades from the mess they had fallen in. Men from three different kingdoms watched each other warily, but no one drew steel, and soon bodies were being placed in rows across the square.
Steve watched it all happen. The men he had called for would be arriving soon, and while he hoped otherwise, he had a feeling he would be adding to the bodies in the square before all was said and done.