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Ser Axell Florent," called Beric Dondarrion to the captain of the personal guard approaching him. All of the king's uniformed cavalry were under his command.
"Ser Plum," Geoffrey Florent greeted, his expression slightly indignant as he emerged from the tower.
"Ser, we have been stationed in this castle for five days. I still remember the king's orders, but look," Baron Meadow gestured toward the tower. "My men report that large numbers of people are crossing the river. And what is our general doing?"
"I have tried to reason with him, but Lord Julius seems too preoccupied," Geoffrey said with a flash of disdain. "He is busy with his paintings and wine-making. I swear, he would be better suited as a painter or a winemaker than a knight."
"Ser Florent," Meadow gave him a slight nod and moved toward a secluded corner of the castle, beckoning him to follow.
"Do you believe we can win this battle?" the baron asked.
"Stannis placed his trust in him, and yet what has he done? He seized the castle, yet cannot hold it. Instead, he busies himself collecting wine—cheap swill even beggars would turn away. And he welcomes everyone, as if he were still some lowborn upstart," Baron Meadow continued.
Geoffrey's brows knitted together. "What are you suggesting?"
"Ser, you command three hundred men. I have a hundred. Tell me, do you believe that silver-haired boy has any intention of serving King Stannis? He is stalling, waiting for Highgarden's forces to arrive so he can surrender the castle without a fight.
"If our soldiers knew this, what do you think they would do?" Baron Meadow asked with a knowing smile.
Geoffrey hesitated.
"With these cavalry under our control, Ser Florent, we could do so much more."
As they spoke, a hurried figure rushed past them, and the entire castle stirred with sudden unrest.
Geoffrey grabbed a passing soldier. "What's happening?"
"A rally order, ser," the man answered.
Geoffrey and Meadow exchanged glances. Why would an assembly order be given now?
They hurried to the tower, where they found Cole emerging, fully armed.
"So, here you are," he said. "I had Camilo summon all the knights, but he claimed he could not find you. Seems fate brought you here instead."
Cole strode toward the castle's training ground. "Ser Geoffrey, gather the cavalry immediately."
"Yes, my lord."
"Ser Meadow," Cole glanced at him. "From now on, you will remain inside the castle."
Meadow stiffened. "What do you mean by that? Do you think my numbers are too few to be of use?"
"No, you misunderstand, ser. I will have need of you in the battles to come."
Beric Dondarrion watched Cole walk away in confusion, then exhaled. He supposed it was fine. Renly's forces were too preoccupied to bother with this castle. He would stay back, bide his time, and see who emerged victorious. Then, when the moment was right, he would make his move.
Cole, meanwhile, arrived at the training ground and looked up at the sky. Fish-scale clouds stretched across the horizon. It would not rain tonight.
The training ground, like most castles during these war-torn times, was a vast open space teeming with men. The scene was chaotic—horses neighed, armor clattered, and voices barked orders.
Cole made his way to the stables, where his guards were already waiting. His horse stood among them—a brown stallion with a steady temperament. He ran a hand along its neck before leading it out and mounting.
Jose and the others quickly formed around him.
"My lord," Jose greeted.
Cole nodded in acknowledgment.
Jose led the way as the cavalry slowly rode out of Green Valley's gates to join the larger force beyond the city.
A great wave of riders surged forward, kicking up dust and confusion.
From a distance, young Baron Eustace Meadow watched them vanish into the horizon.
Ser Julius, ever silent about his plans, was often compared to Lann the Clever—the legendary trickster who took Casterly Rock from the Casterlys without lifting a sword.
But Meadow had an idea of what he intended. The cavalry's purpose was to harass the enemy across the river. And when he saw Cole's maps, he knew exactly what the man was planning.
Yet no battle was won with blueprints alone. That was why knights existed.
Bitterbridge was under the command of Mace Tyrell, Duke of Highgarden—mockingly called "Lord Oafish" by some. He was the father of Ser Loras Tyrell, the famed Knight of Flowers, and Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden.
During Robert's Rebellion, he had led an army to besiege Storm's End for a year—a battle that made Stannis Baratheon's name legendary.
And now, history was repeating itself. Highgarden again. The Tyrells again. The siege of Storm's End again. Did the gods intend for him to wash away his past shame and finally claim victory?
Yet, their King, Renly, did not seem eager to grant him the honor of taking Storm's End. He knew that castle well—after all, he had witnessed its walls hold firm through a year-long siege. He had watched as Stannis, as unyielding as ever, refused to break, time and time again.
He had replayed that battle in his mind countless times, imagining how he would have taken the castle. This time, he was certain he could succeed. But instead of leading the assault, Renly had ordered him to transport supplies to the rear.
Mace Tyrell was no longer a reckless young man. The order had come from his son-in-law, the king himself. He had led armies before and knew all too well the importance of keeping an army well-fed. They had once sought to starve Stannis into submission—why should things be different now?
"My lord, is it not too risky to transport the baggage and siege equipment together?" Ser Tormund Crane asked.
Mace waved a dismissive hand. "The southern army is already here. Where could the enemy possibly come from?"
He led a force of 5,000 men to escort the convoy, including 2,000 Highgarden cavalry.
"Tormund, once Renly takes Storm's End and King's Landing, I will see you named commander of the city's garrison." Mace spoke with certainty. This knight had been with him for years, serving as a trusted officer in Highgarden.
His son, Loras, was a member of the Rainbow Guard, deeply favored by the king, and his daughter, Margaery, was Renly's queen. It was easy to imagine that Westeros would soon enter an age ruled by House Tyrell.
"Where are we?" Mace asked suddenly.
"Almost at the Kingswood, my lord," Tormund replied, glancing at the vast stretch of green forest ahead.
Mace chuckled. "Randyll Tarly suggested we use ships to transport the supplies down the Mander River to avoid enemy cavalry raids. A cautious plan to reduce losses."
"Perhaps, my lord, but—"
Mace cut him off. "Oh, I know. He is an excellent commander. He wants to sail the supply fleet down the Mander, into the Wendwater, and then into Blackwater Bay, so that when we take King's Landing, the food will be ready.
"But he fails to consider the season. The Wendwater is shallow in many places—so shallow that men could ride across on horseback. How, then, does he intend to sail a fleet through?"
Tormund nodded silently. "Even Lord Tarly has his miscalculations, it seems."
Mace scoffed. "People love to exaggerate. They remember that Randyll Tarly once defeated Robert Baratheon, but they forget my victories. Just like this 'Twin-Blade Knight' the minstrels won't stop singing about.
"What kind of name is that? Sounds like a sellsword."
He sneered. "I would wager he's just some green boy who barely knows how to hold a sword. Any knight under my command could best him and send him crying to his mother."
Tormund chuckled. "Stannis left a boy in charge of the city's defense? He must be truly desperate for commanders."
Mace laughed. "Aye, I hear he follows some foreign god now. He puts his faith in a child and a foreign deity—" He paused, squinting at the horizon. "Wait… is it just me, or is the sunset unusually bright?"
He turned his gaze behind them.
There was no sunset. It was already dark.
That wasn't sunlight—it was fire.
"My lord, something is happening at the rear!" Tormund warned.
"Seven hells, what now?" Mace cursed, turning to the nearest knight. "Who was in charge of the patrols?"
"Ser Mark Mullendore, my lord."
Mace scowled. "The one who trains monkeys?"
"No, my lord, that's Ser Mark Mullendore."
"I don't care which damned Mullendore it is! I want to know what's happening!"
Moments later, a rider galloped toward them with an urgent report—
Their supply convoy was under attack.
Mace immediately ordered Ser Tormund to lead the cavalry to reinforce the rear. But when they arrived, all they found was devastation. The ground was littered with wreckage—scattered supplies, bodies of soldiers and slaves, and burning wagons.
"What? The attackers have already fled?" Mace demanded as he rode up.
A survivor told them what had happened. A large group of mounted raiders had struck under cover of night, wielding torches and carrying strange sacks. They had stormed the convoy, cutting down men and setting fire to the supplies.
Someone picked up one of the discarded sacks and handed it to Mace. When he opened it, a strong, sour scent filled his nose.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Wine, my lord," someone answered.
Mace frowned. "Wine?"
Before anyone could respond, another panicked soldier arrived, breathless and frantic.
"My lord! The patrols report another enemy attack—this time at the rear!"