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[h2]The Reach, Ashford[/h2]


“In case you haven’t noticed, Ser Davos, we have a war to win.” It was perhaps to the Lord’s credit that the look he gave the younger man seemed more sour now than when the matter of betrothals were brought before him. “That is hardly the time for me to parcel out men on a whim.”

Davos hadn’t attempted to broach the matter with Vittoria, their parting had been a whirlwind of emotions and act that hadn’t seemed fair to bring up the issue of his own impending daring deeds. Her focus was on her duty, to the point she’d been very direct about not allowing him to intervene even in an effort to keep her from doing harm to herself. Meanwhile, he could hardly put aside the fact she had almost died, was not yet recovered, and already throwing herself back into the crucible. Then he’d received the issive marked with the Wylde spiral, and his world had changed once more. He’d shared the news with her, but not the details of what he must do.

“I understand,” Davos spoke with a simple nod, before handing the same letter over to Theo Tyrell, stepping away only to give the seated lord a chance to read through the missive. The venerable man’s face was steely, but despite this there was still some shock readable on his features.

“You would share this knowledge with me?” The eyebrow was raised as he looked up, studying the relatively youthful, but scarred, countenance of the Baratheon. “This is enough to shake any alliance, we cannot build on sand.”

“My brother has been confirmed dead, and his son in chains, you can think what you wish of how much you can rely on my House once I have enough men to storm Ashford and set him free.” There was fire in Davos’ words, but the shrug of his shoulders more matched the flippant nature of their meaning. Thoughts of the future had been burned away, and the look of his father was upon him. He would do what he must for the here and now.

It was evident that Theo Tyrell had misgivings about Baratheons, he’d found Orys brash in the extreme and overly given to emotion, despite his competence, and nothing that he’d seen of his descendents suggested they were any different. This, along with the willingness to so freely present evidence of the House’s current weakness were factors so very different to what he had looked to build. At the same time, there were worse things than an honest ally, and one whom owed you a favour.

“How many do you need?” Already Theo’s focus was back on his desk, the scratch of ink onto parchment underscoring his words.

“I need riders more than I need numbers, enough to pull them out of the city, I trust my nephew to cause trouble on his own.” He did not add that any number of men wouldn’t prevent the captors from taking the younger Baratheon’s head should that not be true, and speed was more important in this endeavor.

“Reclaiming Ashford is a worthy aim, it is improper that such rabble be allowed to lord themselves over our loyal and true bannermen.” The stamp of the rose came down on the missive, and this new letter was handed up towards Davos. “It is good of you, Ser Davos, to volunteer to assist the Reach in this way. We will pray that in doing so you are able to recover the noble hostages held by the rebels, and if not, to avenge them.” 

Davos dipped his head in a respectful bow as he took the missive, a look of gratitude flashing across his features only partially obscured by the motion. Providing the men he needed, and the means to motivate them without revealing the vulnerability of House Baratheon to any spies of the faith within the ranks of the Reachmen was an eventuality he could hardly have hoped for.

“Ride with haste, Seven guide you.”

[hr]

“Silly little town.” Kyle Connington looked down upon Ashford from his place atop a Reach steed, taken in haste from the Tyrell host, as the cutting remark was spoken to Davos.

They were usually alike in their unsevere nature, but Davos’ attention settled on the town with an intensity that didn’t account for laughter or jests. It wasn’t that the Connington knight, one of Davos’ longer campaigning companions, misunderstood the situation or what it meant to House Baratheon, it was simply a different method of coping with that.

House Baratheon hadn’t been alone in being elevated to their position as overlords of their territory. House Tyrell and House Tully were among those that the older great houses may call usurpers, but these were still ancient families extended over twisting webs of hereditary trees. House Baratheon originated from a single bastard and a worthy queen but a generation before. To lose Durran, and have his son and heir lost was a threat that could overturn everything. Stormlanders were belicose by nature, and now was a time where many houses across Westeros were questioning loyalties that had been hard earned, and easily betrayed.

“That helps us.” Edric Celtigar rode up alongside the other two men. Only a distant cousin of the landed house, his grandfather had served alongside Orys in the early Targaryen armies, and so he, his sons, and now his grandsons served as retainers for the now-landed Baratheons.  “A town designed to look pretty for tourneys and festivals is hardly a fortress, no matter how hard the rebels pray.” The small party compised of Davos’ retainers among the force he had assembled from what riders the Tyrells were willing to spare had far less moral hesitation when it came to the Warrior’s Sons and their Poor Fellows rabble, they were not men they had served alongside nor the people they ruled over. Still, they mostly kept such comments among themselves.

“They are riding under the impression we are tasked with ensuring the safety of Lord Ashford, and in securing the town.” Davos finally spoke himself, his eyes still on the town as he instructed his companions. “This isn’t a lie, it’s important we achieve these things for the benefit of House Tyrell.” The Baratheon paused only to draw his blade, but kept it low, lest the flickering of light upon the metal draw attention from the town. “I’ll ride and command the force, I want you two to find Rogar, if he’s going to make it out alive he’ll have used our distraction to separate from his captors.”

“And if he hasn’t?”

“Then we hope that whoever is in charge doesn’t try to cut their loses.” Davos’ tone kept the grim reality of what that could mean from being spoken. In truth, after the news of the loss of his brother, he had little thoughts for optimism. He’d be damned, however, if he’d let these rebels get away with the body of his nephew. He’d be damned if he let a single of them live, if they had done their worse.

“Alright then.” Kyle spoke with a sigh of held breath, before adding. “Lets kill the bastards.”

[hr]


As the rising sun brought the shining charge of the Reach knights into view, the town was engulfed in chaos. The clatter of hooves from afar echoed through the narrow streets as knights thundered through, their armor gleaming in the dim light. The air was thick with the smell of fear and smoke as the suddenly fearful Poor fellows fled in every direction, their makeshift barricades crumbling under the relentless onslaught.

The ruse was a simple one, the knights of the assault had fanned out in a far more disperesed manner than they would normally ride into battle, hunting horns bellowing from many angles. A more disciplined foe would have little difficulty responding to such, but the attackers counted on the sort of rumors that had been circulating among the warriors of the faith, that the lords of the Southern Reach were raising banners to bring retribution to them. For many of the Poor Fellows, unused to the war they had found themselves in, the riding party may as well have been the full might of Highgarden.

That still left the men at arms and knights that had joined up with the cause, as well as the die had radicals more prepared to sell their lives in the name of the cause, and to fight even armoured foes tooth and nail for every inch of cobbled street. Many didn’t meet the riders head on, but instead clung to the shadows, ready to strike with bow rather than blade.
The knights charged forward with unwavering determination, their swords raised high, ready to strike down any who dared to stand in their way. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks with deadly precision, but the knights pressed on, their shields deflecting the deadly rain. The clash of steel continued to rebound down cobbled streets, the screams of dying men growing more desperate as the picturesque town was drenched in the stench of hot blood.

Davos was among them. The first foe he brought down was with the thundering crash of a green and gold lance lent from the Tyrells, punching clean through the first rider of the enemy he had met, not caring to mark the heraldry of the traitor before he ended whatever crusade of faith he believed he was on. Then, with the long weapon embedded and twisted, he relied on his blade. He struck with violence and fury. There was no small pang of pain and grief in his actions, but there was purpose too. The greater the scene of calamity the riders created, the more likely the ruse would continue to work, driving away more and more of the Poor Fellows rabble even as their knightly leaders attempted to rally them to hold Ashford.

He was determined not to give them the chance, to drive them to the dirt and keep them there with armoured boot until they had realised their mistake in taunting the wrath of the storm.

The rapid and brutal force of the assault was working, for the moment. Even the unusually triangular shape of the town castle didn’t seem to have responded properly to the incursion, the drawbridge was still down, as men scrambled back and forth, fleeing to or from the security, or prison, of the fortifications.

“On me.” Davos called to the rider beside him, one of the Tyrell riders bearing a horn as well as their blade, who gave a quick nod through their half-helm, and drawing said horn to their lips, blowing two quick blasts, then calling out;

“To the Stag! To Ser Davos!” It was full of the excessive chivalry of the Reach, but it worked all the same to draw the nearest riders up alongside Davos as he charged, pushing his destrier to further heights of speed and power as they barreled towards the gateway, closing in on it before it in turn could be closed on them. The original plan had been to be to strike then pull out of the town, before the numbers of the enemy could be brought to bear. With the castle not yet secure, and its main contingent either in the town or fleeing further, they had the opportunity to secure the town in one strike, rather than the harrying attempt they had planned. It was a risk, but given the events of the last week, Davos felt he had little left to lose.

Besides, if his wife to be could keep riding herself into certain danger, he’d hardly let her get away without the same worry.

The resistance in the keep itself was, as expected, fiercer, not just in attitude but in equipment and training. The storming of the courtyard was swift enough, the attackers still had the advantage of their steeds, and no matter that they now knights, properly equipped and emblazoned on in the colours of the seven, they had yet to reach their own steeds. There wasn’t much plate did to preserve ribs from the crunching force of a destrier’s charge, or kick, and for all their nobility, the Reach knights were still not above slipping from the saddle to finish off a stricken foe, particularly a rebel.

Their momentum for a moment was haltered by a similar rain of arrows to before, and in the more confined space this took a greater toll. Some of the precious steeds of the knights were lost, before Davos could have them ordered to abandone them in full, allowing the thunderous beasts to storm back the way they came and out of the keep, while the knights hunkered down behind their shields.
“Push for the Hall,” Davos behind the curtain of defence. In many sieges, the defenders might retreat to a Sept, they were usually defended and offered at least the chance the attackers would respect the rights of sanctuary. Davos didn’t expect the Knights of the Faith to offer such a clear surrender of imagery to these particular attackers. Secondly, although he’d be loathe to admit it infront of the pious Reachmen he fought alongside, he doubte his own restraint in that matter.

While the arrows could be lethal to their steeds, once afoot, and with shield raised, there was little the guerilla fighters could do to harm the fully plated attackers, who moved as a mass of metal and blade towards the main hall. The Warrior’s Sons, if there were any of particularly martial note among them, were not in great enough numbers to press back against the simple weight of momentum, the knights had put too much faith in their Poor Fellow’s ability to rally, and had been preparing to sally rather than hold the castle.
When they finally broke into the hall, Davos expected to find some sort of final resistance, but instead he saw, at the end of the hallway, the startled face of the burly Ayden Darklyn slowly turn to face the oncomers, a look of shock on his features. He seemed to move to speak, to address those who had assailed the Keep he had only recently taken, but only a spurt of blood issued forth from his lips, before he collapsed forwards.

Behind him, the pale, shaking, but steadfast shape of Lord Ashford young adolescent daughter stood, her dress torn, clutching in her quivering hands the hilt of Darklyn’s own blade, the length slick with the owner’s blood.

“Brave girl.” Davos spoke, before rushing forwards to catch the collapsing maiden.