[center][IMG]https://media.istockphoto.com/id/483956751/vector/early-morning.jpg?s=612x612&w=0&k=20&c=QvJ6pIkqUs6Z5c2eKD6qq1SEHhq7SORMsZSPreyB7CU=[/IMG][/center]
[right][sup][@Ezekiel][@Vanq][/sup][/right]

“Marshal, how fares the view?” The question preceded the arrival of Rogar by a few paces, the trot of his steed bringing up abreast with another, albeit considerably older, mounted man. Despite a reputation for boisterous living, the young heir to House Baratheon seemed to have no lack of zest for the early hour. Marshal Kerrick had seen him gambling and drinking in all of the various stops the Baratheon force had made on their journey from Storm’s End and yet he was ever among the first to be prepared for the next day’s march. There was a time in his youth he’d have envied such a thing.

“Well my Lord, sound asleep still, by the looks of it.” The older man, just a few good years in his position left, he reckoned, turned his eyes to regard the fierce pink light rising from the horizon, “Won’t be much more of that though.” He mused, even if the fellows they were tracking had no reason to rise so early, the more permanent inhabitants of the township would certainly soon be on the rise. The towns of the Kingswood had largely been free of banditry since the time of the Conquest and for the time it showed in how few sentries were posted across the town, few enough that the Baratheon host had been able to move through the surrounding woods unchallenged so far. This probably could explain how the town had also ended up hosting the mass of Poor Fellows’ currently bunked and encamped within.

“A good job then that the men are in position, I should think.” Rogar Baratheon pulled the long haft of his great axe free from the binding of his saddle. The weapon was large enough to still be effective from horseback, should it come to that. While the youngest of the surviving male Baratheons kept his face free of the renown family facial hair, his build still betrayed his heritage, a powerful form sitting atop the snorting destrier he rode. As he finished speaking with the Marshal, he turned slightly to address a new rider, drawing up beside the other two men. “How about it then Ser, let us signal the men to play us in.” The idea was Rogar’s own, although none of his party felt it a particularly bad one. They had mused how best to not lose the advantage of surprise without also ensuring that matters would turn violent, when there was still some possibility that might be avoided. The somewhat jovial plan was the solution. With the wave of Rogar’s axe, the signal passed down through the various subdivisions of the force.

With only a brief delay, a crescendo of noise sounded throughout the Kingswood. A great blaring of hunting horns, in tune with each other, crashed through the foliage. The first retort still echoing in the air, and the men-at-arms began to move forwards. Several hundred well drilled men spurring into action, even as the second blast of the horns sounded, beating down on the township below. The Baratheon force had the town surrounded, firstly by rings of foot companies, then a thinner, but not less intimidating, group of Knights. The horns continued to sound as they marched forwards in tight lines, filing out of the cover of both darkness and wood with the precision of well drilled combatants.

“Hail there!” Rogar called out from atop his barded steed, his powerful frame emitting a noise loud enough to signal the hunting horns to silence as he began his negotiations. “I am told we have guests who have been enjoying the hospitality of House Baratheon without leave!” The good natured tone of the Stormlander heir washed over his men, and there were more than a few chuckles from the marching party. “Now, while we have no need to get too angry with each other, we’ve been instructed by my lord father to tell you to, kindly, piss off!” The marshal beside Rogar gave a brief huff of disapproval, but it buoyed the men further none the less. “And we’ll be happy to show you the way!”

A woman flailed, flung to life with a great startle. She bolted upright, hand to her chest where her heart beat as though she was under attack. It took a moment, a minute, to place where she was. In her dreams it always started with a dragon overhead, black enough to blot out the sun. Or it was a company of Dornishmen sent to retrieve her for judgment and hanging. She blinked, she was in her tent, another small village same as any other. What was that godsforsaken sound? 

Lady Ellyn launched herself from her bed, scrambled to get dressed. The cacophony faded as she donned a gambeson and riding leathers - though she hadn’t had a mount in weeks, traded instead for food and ale. Instead of the horrible noise, a voice carried to her tent. She grimaced, no Faithful house would purposefully force some Poor Fellows from their land. Surely there was confusion, or the corruption of the dragonlords extended to the bastardized Stormking line. Her grimace deepened. 

She strapped Dawn to her waist then paused with her hand at the flap of her tent. Looking behind her, the tattered rainbow cloak was neatly folded by her armor. She may have been barred from entry to the Warrior’s Son, but she wore the gift with pride. Never one talented for mending, she kept it in as good condition as her skill allowed. Ellyn went back and secured it over her shoulders. 

It wrapped around her in the soft breeze as she made her way through the camp. She hushed her people as they clambered to know if she had expected this. As they asked her what they should do. Dawn stayed sheathed, she urged them to calmness. Her Septon found her and joined her side. He wore the gray robes of the Poor Fellows, a seven pointed star sewn to the wool but not carved on his body. His cudgel was noticeably absent. “Brother Mal, ensure our people do nothing rash. But have them ready to scatter to the forests if need be.” He nodded his agreement, Ellyn did not stop to see it and he stood for a moment longer looking after her before turning to tend to her command. 

“Hail, Ser Rogar.” She came to a stop several feet back from the man she assumed to be Lord Baratheon’s only son and heir. She looked left to right over the line of his fellow knights. “I am Lady Ellyn, Sword of the Morning, commander of these Stars. And  we answer only to the High Septon who has given us welcome across any lands of those faithful to the Seven.” The lady paused, feet squared and rooted to the ground beneath her. Her hands rested on her hips, words spoken as simple truths. “But to have arrived so early, perhaps you would prefer to dismount and break bread with us before our morning prayers.” 

Despite the rather decisive, if crass, nature of his initial proclamation, Rogar seemed to take the refusal by omission with good humour, a slight laugh tumbling from him, before he looked to the older man beside him. When he spoke he clearly addressed the other man, although her did not whisper to conceal his words, “Do remind me to suggest my Lord Father adds a flogging to that man’s confinement. Lying to your liege lord, shameful really.” That seemed to give the man pause, before Rogar continued, “She might be many things, but she’s certainly not homely.” The explanation only bringing an exasperated sigh from the Marshal, before, as planned, he handed over what appeared to be a large scroll the Heir to unfurl.

Taking a moment to let out an overacting clearing of his throat, with an added wink of his dark eyes to Ellyn, he began to read, “Lord Baratheon, the people of Helmford wish to report the theft of two swine by a band of fellows under the protection of the High Septon,” Rogar hardly paused before moving onto the next town, then the next town, and the next. A long list of complaints of hardly murderous, but certainly improper behaviour, each condemnation rising in volume from the young noble’s lips, “Oh, this is my favourite, “House Fell feels a duty to all good men and women of the faith to write in warning to House Baratheon of a band of wantons, a licentious group who allow a woman to lead them, who are corrupting our smallfolk with their deprivations.” With that, Rogar handed the parchment back to his marshal with a winning smile as ever, “Now, I might not be the most pious man, but I don’t think that’s what the High Septon meant by ‘free passage.’

The Seven truly sought to test her. Much as she tried to maintain her posture in the litany of complaints, she shifted uncomfortably before the knight and his host. [I]Not homely[/I], Maiden save her from herself that her own first impression had been one of despair to find the heir looking as he did. She should have had Septon Mal accompany her. He grounded her and he would have some passage from the Seven Pointed Star for an eloquent rebuttal.

As it was, she had only herself. Her lips pressed together tightly in momentary thought as the man japed at her. "We are all sinners, Ser. I will not dispute it. But only the High Septon may judge and punish us. You should send such charges on to him." The charges from House Fell wounded her the most, a charge that only she could answer to and that was not driven by need of hunger or warmth as her people's sins were. "If there's nothing else, Ser, I will see to my people and their needs." Ellyn Dayne turned on her heels, away from the mounted men and back towards her people. They had formed a semi-circle in the distance, curiosity brought them to see what would happen but fear had them keeping their distance. 

"There was one other thing." Rogar called out as the woman turned, his smile turning to a slight grin at her incessant refusal to play the proper part in the situation. "On top of all of that, a light spot of treason." With that, Rogar raised one arm behind him. The previously jovial nature of the men at his command collapsed into cold discipline as they stood to attention, the haft of spears beat to the surface of their shields in a cacophonous salute. The force Rogar marched with would be considered a large hunting party, but a small force for putting down bandits, still, it outnumbered the poor fellows by at least a magnitude of five, and in all honesty, he'd have placed his coin on his men even if they'd had half the number of the rabble.

"By order of my lord father,  Durran Baratheon, son of Orys Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, you are hereby to be expelled from these woods. You may not disperse and are to be escorted from the lands held by him, in the King's name. In his clemency we have been offered to extend to you the choice of Dorne or the Reach, the latter we shall accompany you far enough that immediate return shall be unlikely. Comply, and words of treason against House Baratheon and House Targaryen shall not be passed on to greater authority. Refuse, and we shall exact their punishment in the King's place." Despite the threat in his words, Rogar Baratheon retained his demeanor, his grin breaking back into a smile. "Comply quickly and we can even make a pleasant jaunt of it all."


[I]No[/I]. Her fists clenched briefly at her side but she quickly waved her hands at her people in front of her, urging them again to take no action. She took a deep breath, her head briefly dipping in defeat, before calling out the order to break camp and be ready to leave. She could see Mal at the front, uncertainty overcome by her commands. He'd see to it, even if he did not know why. 

Ellyn turned back to the Baratheon host, her face as emotionless as she could hold it. Returning to Dorne would be a punishment all its own, for a fleeting moment she thought perhaps it was time to end this farce. It left quickly, something deep from within that refused to be stilled. There was only one choice. "I will accept an escort to the Reach where I may provide witness to the treatment we have received at the hands of those who should be faithful servants of the Seven." Her voice wavered, betrayed her emotion. Ellyn cleared her throat, steadied herself again. "I'm sure you will offer a mount to me and  to my septon. I'm afraid we sold ours to a village some weeks back. Perhaps they mistook them as a gift if they've since  accused us of theft." 

"Perhaps if the High Septon did not want a Targaryen as a King he should not have annointed one with sacred oil." Rogar mused aloud, before returning to a more decisive tone, "But of course, we have steeds spare for yourself and a few others, and rations aplenty for us all, I'm so glad we could reach a cordial agreement." There was a brief pause of inaction, before Rogar turned his head slightly to address his marshal once more, "Please find the lady a steed, her Septon as well. Should they have any injured among them, they may ride in the train." There was a wavering moment at the thought the Stormlanders might provide the rogue dornishwoman with a steed, but it was soon overcome and the order was set about.

"Oh and I wouldn't be too upset my lady, it is never an easy thing when what we believe to hold true is proven false. I am sure you will find the Reach much more inclined to your presence. We are a hardy and brutal folk, here in these wild lands." The Heir to the Stormlands chuckled, and the good humour once more rippled through his men. "ARMSMEN, PLEASE ENSURE THE SAFETY OF THE TOWNS FOLK AND OUR CHARGES, THOSE WHO VOLUNTEER TO OUR CARE ARE NOT TO BE HARMED." He called out over the host, who, with another shield-bound salute, began to move into the town proper to ensure the order followed.

Most of Lady Ellyn's Stars complied when word spread that an accord had been struck. A few, there were always a few, had made an attempt to flee towards the forest, or had spat at some of the armsmen. None had the foolish thought to raise a weapon against the Baratheon men. Septon Mal had been able to calm the hottest flames of resentment. They had talked, as their people had been soothed and horses prepared for them, under watchful and distrustful eyes. Ellyn tried to apologize to the old septon, for bringing them so far and failing them. Mal offered her what comfort he could, they would be delayed for weeks now, to join up with a larger force and make their way back to King's Landing in a way to avoid the Storm lands completely. But the Seven would guide her, he promised. He had faith in her even when she had none left in herself. 

She rankled at the allegation he laid against the High Septon who had capitulated to the Targaryen host decades past. Dire times had called for desperate measures and the Targaryens continued barely paying lip service to the true gods. If one could receive the blessing then one could see it withdrawn, an argument she kept to herself even as they mounted the offered steeds. Lady Ellyn was not a small woman, taller than most women even if of only average height for men. But she was glad to have a proper horse beneath her rather than the sad creature she had ridden for weeks. 

It knickered at her softly as she pressed it forward, alongside a line of knights who gave her passing glances, judgemental glares, or some few who gave hungry looks they seemed to think she would not notice. One of the ladies had thought it more appropriate for her hair to be plaited back if she was to ride with the lord's son. Ellyn had thought it silly but allowed the woman to tend to her. Whether it was vanity or a just bit of common sense, she wasn't sure. 

If she was not to be treated as a prisoner, she would demand to be treated as a peer. So she rode to the front of the column when none moved to stop her. Ellyn stopped next to Ser Rogar. She looked him over, that smile, the smugness, the confidence only a youth could have. She wasn't sure if it was hatred or jealousy that flared within her. Perhaps she stared too long, but all she offered in the end was a nod and turned her attention ahead of them both. "My people are ready, we await your signal."