"A Shield in the Storm: The Captain’s Oath"

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The North Marches South

The banners of the Direwolf flew high as the Northern host moved like a great tide, their steel and leather catching the light of the setting sun. The stench of wet earth and sweat filled the air, mixing with the lingering cold of the North that clung to them like an old promise.

Steve Rogers rode near the vanguard, his horse steady beneath him. He had spent weeks among these men, listening, guiding, learning. Unlike the battle-hardened knights of the South, the North fought with pragmatism over pageantry. Their armor was practical, their weapons worn but deadly, and their faces were those of men who knew hardship better than comfort.

But despite their strength and discipline, Steve saw the cracks beneath the surface.

This isn't an army yet. Not truly.

They were clans, banners, and feudal warriors bound by duty and vengeance, but not unity. They marched with purpose, but not with a singular vision. Each lord answered only to himself. Even Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton, two of the more seasoned commanders, seemed more interested in their own men than in the grander strategy.

This was not the same as marching under the Star-Spangled Banner.

This was a force of warriors, not soldiers.

And that would need to change.

"You're Not Like the Others, Ser Steven."

A voice broke through his thoughts.

"You're thinking too much, knight."

Steve turned to see a young man riding beside him, his horse moving smoothly despite the uneven terrain. He had the sharp, watchful eyes of a scout, and his armor was more practical leather than plate. The sigil of House Mollen, a grey and black pine, rested on his cloak.

The man smirked. "Don't tell me you've already lost the stomach for marching, eh?"

Steve smiled faintly. "I've marched longer roads before, friend. What's your name?"

"Ser Dain Mollen," the young knight replied. "Second son of Lord Wylis Mollen. And you, Ser Steven, are a bit of an enigma, aren't you?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Dain leaned slightly, voice lowering. "You fight like no knight I've ever seen, yet you speak with the discipline of a commander. You march with the foot soldiers, but ride with the lords. And for all the bloodlust I see in these men, you…" He narrowed his eyes. "You're different."

Steve held his gaze.

Sharp one, this kid.

He could dismiss it, play the part of the honorable knight. But something in Dain's look told him the man wouldn't be so easily fooled.

Instead, Steve answered with a question.

"And what do you think I am, Ser Dain?"

Dain grinned. "A man with a purpose greater than this war."

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Steve nodded, acknowledging the truth without confirming anything.

"You're observant," he said. "That'll keep you alive in the days to come."

Dain chuckled. "And yet, somehow, I think staying close to you will keep me alive longer."

The Problem With Northern Leadership

As the day wore on, the march settled into a rhythm—the steady grind of boots and hooves against the dirt, the clinking of armor, the murmurs of tired men.

Steve took this time to study the commanders.

Lord Rickard Karstark was a seasoned warrior, but his focus remained on his own bannermen. He spoke little to the other lords, more concerned with avenging his kin than in ensuring the army functioned as a whole.

Roose Bolton, on the other hand…

Steve didn't trust him.

There was something cold in the man's eyes, something calculating. He followed orders, but Steve could tell—Bolton was the kind of man who played the long game.

And then there was Lord Wylis Mollen, Dain's father. An older, battle-worn man who commanded respect but lacked the charisma to inspire. He was reliable, but not a leader who could bring all the banners together.

It became clear to Steve.

They're all capable in their own ways, but there's no true leader yet.

That would change when Eddard Stark joined them.

Until then, Steve had an opportunity.

Not to take command—he had no interest in titles or ranks.

But to ensure this army learned discipline before they reached the South.

And he would do that the only way he knew how.

Nightfall – A Lesson in Discipline

The campfires burned bright as the army settled for the night. Men sharpened swords, ate quietly, and whispered of the battles to come. The lords gathered in their own circles, discussing strategy and politics.

Steve, however, walked among the common soldiers.

"Ser Steven," a voice called.

A group of younger knights and foot soldiers had gathered, led by a man Steve had already come to know—Ser Thom Greysteel, a knight of no noble house, but a warrior respected for his sheer skill.

"You're a knight, aye?" Thom said, his tone carrying curiosity. "Yet you fight and move like a man trained for war, not just tournaments."

Steve smiled. "You don't need noble blood to be a warrior."

Some of the men laughed, nodding in agreement.

"Tell me, then," Thom continued, "what's the most important thing in a battle?"

The men muttered among themselves. "Strength." "Skill." "Armor." "A sharp blade."

Steve shook his head. "No. Discipline."

Silence.

"Strength means nothing if you fight alone," Steve said. "Skill is wasted if you break formation. A sharp blade won't save you if you charge without thinking."

The men listened. Some nodded, others frowned, considering his words.

"If you want to live through this war, you need to stop thinking like knights and start thinking like soldiers," Steve continued. "You fight for your houses, yes. But if you don't fight together—as one—then you'll all die alone."

Dain Mollen grinned. "You sound more like a commander than some of the lords leading us."

Steve smirked. "Then maybe they should listen too."

The men chuckled, but Steve saw something shift in their expressions. Understanding. A new perspective.

That was the first step.

The Mission – A Reminder

As Steve stood beneath the night sky, looking over the resting army, he took a deep breath.

This war isn't the real fight.

The true war would come later.

Against the monsters hidden in the dark places of the world.

Against the unseen forces that sought to break humanity before they could stand together.

The North was strong—but strength without purpose was wasted potential.

If Steve Rogers was to fulfill his mission…

Then he had to ensure that when the time came, Westeros would be ready.

No matter what it took.

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