[right][h1]Ashford - The Reach[/h1]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/KPRVhFQ.jpeg[/img]
[sub]Collab with [@Vanq][@Ruby][@Ezekiel][/sub][/right]

The Baratheon host made good time, for all the veneer of arrogant indolence that Rogar easily portrayed, he kept himself and his men to a tight and well drilled schedule. More accurately, his Steward did, but the young Baratheon knew better than to dismiss the experience of a man who had been fighting wars since before Rogar's father had been born. He would joke and hunt with the men, but anything that endangered their haste or their relatively low profile was dealt with harsh but fair discipline, to the point that such infractions were rare not out of fear of reprisal, but fear of letting your lord and fellows down. Orys and his father had been tougher on their men certainly, for they bore the burden of being the first and the second, always something to prove for any slip could spell an end to all authority. Rogar was the first Baratheon to who such authority was a true birthright, a chance he was determined not to squander.

He had learned much from his grandsire though, some directly but most passed down via his father. The speed was there to prevent their finding, they had little reason to fear true reprisal but little was not none, and Orys Baratheon had always said that any information out of the hands of the enemy was always a boon, even in peacetime. Each morning with the changing of the guard, the camp was disassembled and what efforts could be made to conceal or confuse the passing of hundreds of men were made, and the march beneath the dawn sun began.

The ride and march this morning brought a welcome sight. Ashford was well known for being a town of fair appearance, white stone gleaming in the Sun beneath the triangle shape of their ancestral fortress. When many thought of the Reach they thought of such a picturesque sight. It certainly had a more pleasant smell than some parts of Oldtown, Rogar thought to himself as he watched the town from a hillock. He had been to Ashford once before, several years back. The beautiful market town was surrounded by rolling fields, an ideal location by both reasons for tournaments. One such field had been taken up by a sprawling camp, a gathering of men at arms many times the size of the Baratheon host, no doubt one of the armies marshaling to the call of the Reachlords with the recent unrest sweeping the Kingdom, as opposed to being raised simply to accept the exchange of hostages from one land to another.

Speaking of hostages, Rogar turned his head at the trot of hooves. Despite the official designation that Lady Dayne and all her followers had been under the custody of House Baratheon they had hardly experienced a trying couple of weeks. The Baratheon host did not trust them so much as to assign them watches, but otherwise they had mostly been allowed the run of the camp. When a few of their number had gone missing, scattering into the wilderness, Rogar had only had them followed for a short time, convinced they were scattering home rather than alerting a wider force his scouts had somehow missed. The majority had remained though, loyal to their cause and not mistreated by their captors, it was an easy decision.

The beat of hooves drew closer, both the Lady Dayne and his own accompanying Steward, the older man taking his duty seriously even if few by this point suspected the Dornish woman would attempt something such as an assassination on the Baratheon heir.

“Friends, come spy the fair visage of Ashford, as fine a quaint little town as any you may find across the Reach.” He beckoned to them both, so that the concealed archers that no doubt still watched over him would not feel the need to pepper either with arrows for approaching Rogar without summons. Away from the camp itself, his guardians were often less patient to establish such things.

“It seems Lord Ashford himself awaits our agreed exchange, so our little traipse across the countryside may be at an end.”

It had come to an end, at last. Though as the days had turned to weeks, the eagerness to be free of the Baratheon host had wavered. Not just among her people, who, if she was honest with herself, had been fed and slept better than since even before they left the Reach. But even Lady Dayne had found some semblance of peace in her situation. It rankled to admit it though, and so she would continue to not do so aloud or in earshot of the arrogant lord. 

The same one who called to her now, and no matter her thoughts on it, she nudged the horse to pick up its pace and draw up next to the man. His steward never seemed to warm to her, few of his men had. But she had at least been left undisturbed by them as well. Whether it was the harshness of her stares or some word Rogar had put about, she did not know. 

“Our Sun Shines Bright.” Ellyn muttered in annoyance. She’d been through Ashford on her way to the Stormlands months ago. “And so does the gold that lines the pockets of all the nobles who visit for the fair view, to spend it on little gifts to bring home, of woven yellow roses or,” she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial level, “even carved green hands.” The lady-knight could not entirely smother the hint of a grin but kept her eyes facing forward over the idyllic town and castle. There were far more men gathered than when she had first passed through. It should have been a welcome sight, but she shifted in her saddle to suddenly be so close to her freedom. 

“Do I need to submit myself to be chained for this exchange?” Her steeliness broke with the whisper of a joke, and she glanced at the Baratheon man to her side before twisting her head more to see if his Steward would crack. The grin widened with a flash of white. “I will be sure that Lord Ashford knows we were treated with all due kindness and respect, of course.” She hoped there would be little of that required of her. Ellyn wanted only long enough to watch for the Baratheon host to depart. Surely with a force this large gathering, she’d be folded into some regiment or another and they’d carry on to King’s Landing, again. “I’ll even tell them of your repentance for waylaying one of the faithful, if you let me keep the horse.” She patted the creature’s neck, it had been nice to have such a luxury again. 

“I cannot imagine so, the Reach lords seem far more charitable to roaming bands of faintly murderous faithful folk than we are in the Stormlands.” Rogar caught the grin, and matched it with a less hidden one of his own. He knew a little of the almost conspiratorial nature of the Reachlords, how many still clung to the Hand of Green, but he suspected this minor treason was more to do with parting young and rebellious nobles with their coin than a true effort to fund a rebellion to the old ways. “My grandfather would have probably agreed with you, but he was in one of his moodier years at the time, so of course he would.”

The request for the horse brought a genuine laugh to his features  “Bold, to ask a ransom of your captor.” He allowed the silence to hold for a moment, before he broke it with mercy. “We likely do not have enough riders to bring our spares home, consider it on loan, until perhaps you find yourself at Storm's End on your Crusade to rid this land of false piety.” It was a tease, but there was a hint of severity to it. “Although I'd recommend knocking, rather than trying to breach it, that hasn't seemed to go well for those who try.”

With no further words, Rogar began to trot his steed down the gentle slope towards the town, the gleaming buildings drawing closer, as well as the noise of a camp of many, many men. The banners of Ashford fluttered in the gentle reach breeze, and even from a distance he could note the generally well disciplined nature of the camp, set out a respectful distance from the town itself.

It was early morning, so Rogar didn't expect the hustle and bustle of the market day to have begun, but even that considered, as the small number of riders among his party began to move into the town he was surprised by the lack of activity. It wasn't quite abandoned, he could feel the sting of eyes upon him and the honest of the smallfolk still hummed with activity, but seemed to not wish to make themselves known yet.

“Perhaps the rumors about Reachmen indolence are t-” Rogar was speaking when the twang of a crossbow interrupted him. A gurgle of noise followed, as his Steward slumped from his steed and to the ground in clatter of armour and man. Rogar turned to him first, in shock, and grief, but then he was acting, commanding.

“Ambush! Back to the -” He was half way in to the act when the nearest homes burst open. Men in Ashford Arms and armour pouring out into the street on either side. The armour, however, was ill-fitting, and for as many who bore the bright colours of Ashford, among them were those with the stars and stripes of the Warrior Sons. It was not a fight they could win, even survive if they tried. But that was not the aim, the first blow had been to ensure Rogar took them seriously, but the follow up shots never came.

“...Let's hear the terms of your treason then.”

She’d had a quip ready to lob back at him, a sort of truce they’d formed between themselves, after the barbs against one another had eased. Ellyn turned when Rogar did, at the sound of bolt and the unceremonious death of a man, but she was slower to respond. Her horse’s unsteadiness brought her back to her senses. 

Anger flared and her eyes narrowed. “What is the meaning of this?” How had they missed this? Did Rogar’s men think her complicit? It wasn’t a difficult theory to come to. Still, she spoke out to the Warrior Sons who pushed through the crowd, until a man she vaguely recognized stood before them with a twisted and toothy smile. 

“My, my. It is Lady Ellyn Dayne, the [i]prisoner[/i]. You look remarkably well given the ordeal we were told you endured.” Every word dripped with disdain and was spoken with a heavy sneer. 

“Ser Darklyn.” She held tightly to the reins, knuckles white with the effort. She looked over to her captor in the long pause, an error. 

“Quiet, bitch.” He spat and ran a hand over his jaw. “A woman of the Faith and ardent Star was captured while on holy mission to the capital. Yet here you are, riding beside your supposed captor, with your sword still allowed to you.” He eyed Dawn, sheathed and secured to her horse.

“We were not welcomed to Lord Baratheon’s lands, but why would he mistreat the Seven’s faithful servants? Of course he allowed us-” Another error, her defense of the young lord was not taken well by the crowd beyond Ayden Darklyn. 

“I SAID QUIET!” The knight bellowed and Ellyn Dayne winced back. Memories of her encounters in Oldtown resurfaced, of the judgement and mockery endured. “If you have not forsaken the Seven then do your duty now.” 

There was a darkness in his eyes that made Ellyn look away again and cringe, fearful of what would come next yet somehow expecting it as well. She dared not look at Rogar or any of his men behind them. 

Ser Darklyn turned to men at either side of him. “Strip them of their arms.” He ordered. “And you, [i]Lady[/i] Dayne, you will escort Rogar Baratheon to the keep where he will be held until brought forth for judgement.” 

Not for trial. A pit in her stomach grew, she couldn’t disregard the order, for many reasons. More surprisingly, she found she wanted to. Under the hateful gaze and suspicion all around her, she warred within. Why did she care what happened to these men? But what good was it to the Faith to manipulate the exchange this way? Her hand spasmed for the tight grip she maintained on the reins. She let go with a sigh, she was out of time, she had to act. 

“Of course, ser.” It was not unambiguous in her desire to follow orders, but she kept her face as flat and devoid of emotion as she could manage. 

The man cursed. Then he spat. Then he turned this way, that way, and then he cursed again. Kicked a little dirt. He was in agony when he walked to her, and shook his head, hard, “It’s not good. I can’t tell if it’s Ashford or someone else, but they got him.”

“And her?”

He just stared at her. His eyes saying what his mouth would not: [i]The Seven hells did that woman matter?[/i] Instead, his heart seemed to slow, and he seemed to calm in the face of her wild grey-green eyes, “Her too, Mari.”

Mariel Wylde sighed, deeply, as she faced away from him and towards the hills they had been hiding behind for most the morning. That the Baratheon party never saw them was no miracle from the Seven. They were no gods. There was no afterlife. There was just alive, and dead, and dealing with where things fell along that line.

She’d known that since the love of her life died. “We have friends out here, yes?”

“…a few.” The older man said it, face red with sun and harder living in earlier years, the look of a hedge septon to him. “Not enough. No one close.”

Her eyes rolled, “That sounds about right at the moment.” She looked at the dozen men assembled around her, her mind running through it like her fingertips ran through the feather fletching of an arrow. “We have to get close enough to make every arrow count. Fucking Reach and its lack of rainwood…Sep, go back, get the wagon.”

The first scout stared, “What you thinking?’

“Load four men into the wagon, robed. Sing the songs of the Seven, approach. Get close. We sneak up in the tall grass. With any luck they’re too focused on your merry band approaching to notice us.”

“We’re saving the Baratheon?” Another man asked, confused.

It wasn’t their style to save high nobles. Today seemed like a twisted, queer, jape of a day. “We save them all. And we hurry up before real Reachmen arrive and they ride every last one of us down. Go get that wagon.”

From where they had been ambushed to the keep was no great distance, though it felt an eternity with Ser Ayden at her left and Rogar pulled off his horse to march at her right. It was obvious, now, how many Warrior Sons and Poor Fellows made up the crowds of the markets. Ellyn tried and failed twice to ask a question of the knight and was rebuffed. She resigned herself instead to silently trying to find a way to be at peace with what was happening. By all accounts, she should have been content with the way their fortunes had changed. 

She dismounted with the rest of them when they reached the castle and unstrapped her bag and sword from the horse. It was worth far too much to have been so freely gifted, or at least, her empty coin purse would never have afforded such a beast. 

“Come on, you’re not done yet.” One of Ser Darklyn’s men shoved into her. Ellyn’s brow furrowed at it, no matter that her head ducked in surprising deference. The leather bag held little of importance to her except for the tattered rainbow cloak her people had made her. Dawn felt even heavier in hands as she secured it to herself again. To be worthy, to feel worthy of it, seemed even harder now. 

She followed behind the Warrior Sons’ leader through the courtyard and into the castle and continued to be surprised at how many fellow faithful filled the corridors. “We’ve been warmly welcomed here. House Ashford did not seem nearly so welcoming when I first passed through.”  

Ayden snarled a laughter with no mirth or warmth. “We were persuasive.” 

It took time for Ellyn to understand what exactly he meant as he led them through to a wing of private chambers with an increasing number of guards. “And Lord Ashford -” She nearly walked into Ser Darklyn at his sudden stop. 

“It does not concern you.” His attention turned to his prized hostage. “Here, Rogar Baratheon. I do hope the room suits a man of your stature and lineage.” One of the other Sons opened the door to chambers that had clearly been sifted through for anything of value. 

Ayden’s men jostled Rogar and his men until they were all in the room and pressed back away from the door. Ellyn backed away only to be halted with a rough hand on her shoulder, a grip that dug into her flesh and scraped against bone. She sucked in a sharp breath, at the pain, and at the fear of what would come next. “You too, bitch. Let’s see how friendly you are now with your captor.” He ripped the bag from her shoulder and yanked at the straps that secured Dawn to her. 

Lady Dayne’s vision went white with rage. “Don’t.” Was all she could manage even as she felt the weight of the sword fall away from her, felt herself pushed further into the room where she stumbled and fell to her knee. She heard the door slam shut and barred, she knew there were still a dozen men outside the door. Still, she stood and turned and flung herself back at it, her fists beating against it. “No!” Her legacy, her family’s legacy, her only hope, the only remnant of her father, was gone. Because of her. 

For the forced walk Rogar hadn’t spoken, his features seemed a mask of cold fury, but his mind raced. His own men were still camped beyond the town, there were certain expectations of what they would do should the Baratheon riding party not return without signal but you could never be sure how quickly that would occur. He hoped they would follow through, to retreat and regroup where they might get a message to the nearest lords but he couldn’t entirely write off that they might attempt something foolish out of loyalty.

He didn’t look at Ellyn as he walked, he believed she had been tricked as much as he, but that didn’t make her blameless. She was associated with these men, in some way, that had already done such substantial damage to the realm. He knew they hated him for his family name and what they represented, he was more than willing to pay them back in full. He had even less time and attention for Ser Darklyn, responding only so much as was needed of him to prevent further violence from falling on his surviving riders. His greatest reaction came when they stripped Ellyn of Dawn, an act that surprised him, and further surprised him with his own unthinking action. He tried to turn to resist alongside her, but shortly found a crushing elbow to his ribs as those handingly him restrained him, and he tumbled back into the humble room that was now their quarters. 

“Seven, what a bunch of cunts.” He cursed, as the door was shut, wincing as his breath returned to him, standing straight and holding his hands to the back of his head as he willed more air into his already bruising diaphragm. “This is what comes of treason, a ravening horde that will strip this land of everything worth a damn.”