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"Where did these knights come from?" Mace Tyrell demanded angrily.
His men missed again and again, while the enemy seemed to anticipate their every move. Each time the cavalry from Highgarden arrived, the attackers vanished before they could strike back.
The assault lasted deep into the night.
By sunrise, Mace Tyrell's eyes were bloodshot.
Seated on a velvet blanket, he listened grimly to reports of their losses. His forces had suffered heavily, while the enemy had left behind only a handful of corpses.
It was over. All of it. At first, he had wondered why these raiders carried wine, but soon he understood—it was for burning. Yet could wine even catch fire?
He ordered a servant to fetch a pot of wine and toss it into the flames. To his shock, the fire sputtered and died. He cursed. "Damn it! Someone tell me, what kind of wine is this?"
Lifting a pouch filled with the pungent liquid, he scowled. A maester might have been able to explain, but all the men here were knights—masters of the sword, not alchemy. They only knew how to drink wine, not analyze it. But this substance burned fiercely when ignited. Again and again, the enemy had hurled it onto their wagons, setting them ablaze.
Dawn broke, and the sky blazed red like fire. The sight stung Mace Tyrell's weary eyes. The enemy had known exactly what to target—all the food and siege equipment had gone up in flames.
"My lord," came a desperate voice.
Ser Forley rode up, his face grim. He and his knights had spent the night struggling to put out the fires, but it had been a futile effort.
"My lord, all our provisions have been burned."
Mace's eyes widened in disbelief. This was food meant for tens of thousands of men—gone, just like that? In his mind, there had been enough grain to pave a road from here to King's Landing.
"What did you say?" he barked.
"Our stores were mostly barley and rye, my lord. One spark was enough to consume an entire wagon."
There was no time to mourn the loss. Mace had to act before the rest of the baggage was destroyed.
He ordered his knights to abandon the burnt-out wagons and regroup the remaining convoys into a tighter formation. The long, snaking line of supply carts was compressed into a small cluster, like a coiled serpent nursing its wounds.
This slowed their march. The knights patrolled ceaselessly, watching for further attacks. Apart from food and siege gear, the convoy carried armor and other supplies—most of which had survived. Food could be gathered locally. Equipment could be rebuilt. Mace reassured himself with these thoughts.
His king's son-in-law would not press him too harshly for this failure. True, the losses were great, but who could have predicted that these elusive raiders would strike at this moment? Before setting out, he had sent scouting parties along Rose Road. Their reports had indicated safe passage.
There were no signs of Stannis's men. No enemies from King's Landing. That had given him the confidence to consolidate his supplies and move them together. He had been careful—Bitterbridge was not far from Storm's End, after all.
That night, they reached the Kingswood. Mace Tyrell, exhausted from riding through the day and night, ordered his servants to pitch a tent. He collapsed inside, leaving Ser Forley to oversee the convoy's defense.
Sleep came quickly. But in his dreams, flames surrounded him, rising from all sides. The fire licked at his skin, consuming everything.
Then he awoke—to a blinding glow outside his tent.
Mace leapt from his bed and stepped out, still clad in his velvet robe. Just then, a servant rushed inside, nearly colliding with him.
The Duke cursed. "What's got you in such a panic?"
"My lord—fire!" The servant stammered, struggling to find the words.
Mace shoved him aside and stormed out of the tent.
His breath caught in his throat. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground.
Before him, a sea of flames roared into the sky, turning night into day.
A knight galloped toward him, his face pale with dread. "Lord Tyrell, our caravan has been attacked!"
Mace surged to his feet, seizing the knight by the collar and dragging him down. "How? I ordered Forley to be ready!"
First, the enemy sent a large cavalry force to harass them, and Ser Forley led a sizable group in pursuit.
Mace Tyrell already knew the outcome without needing to see it.
"Fool! That damned idiot—how could he fall for such an obvious trick?" Mace ground his teeth in frustration.
"My lord, we must go! The fire is spreading fast!" The knight beside him urged.
Mace barked an order for his servants to bring his horse. There was no time to don his armor. Under the protection of his cavalry, he fled toward Bitterbridge.
Meanwhile, Ser Forley and his Highgarden riders had chased after the enemy, thinking they could turn the ambush against them. Did they really believe they could be outmaneuvered so easily? It was an insult to Forley Cline's experience. His force numbered five hundred strong, all well-armored, not some rabble. They weren't ordinary men. The advantage was still his.
But just as they were closing in, a panicked voice cried out—
"Look behind! Look behind!"
Forley turned sharply. Behind them, their convoy was ablaze.
His breath caught. His stomach twisted.
He had been deceived.
In his eagerness to pursue the enemy, he had taken nearly all the cavalry with him. But there were still two thousand infantry left behind. How could they have been overwhelmed so easily?
"Ser, do we continue the chase?" a knight asked hesitantly.
Forley stared at the flames, his jaw clenched so tightly that he nearly bit his lip bloody. He forced out a single word.
"Chase."
Destroying this cavalry was his only chance at redemption. He had served House Tyrell for years—if not with great merit, then at least with loyalty and hard work.
Meanwhile, the enemy riders glanced back at the burning convoy. One of them smirked.
"It seems Lord Julius succeeded."
Ser Geoffrey, leading the retreating cavalry, could scarcely believe the sight. The inferno behind them was staggering. The scale of destruction was beyond anything he had imagined.
This Julius… his methods were not particularly extraordinary, but it was as if he had foreseen the enemy's every move.
Geoffrey had ridden behind him last night, watching as he led the charge alone. At the time, Geoffrey had been wary of the enemy's reinforcements. Surely, the Highgarden knights wouldn't allow them to set fire to their supplies so easily.
Yet, they had cut through the convoys, coming and going as they pleased, with no resistance from the enemy knights.
Only now did Geoffrey understand.
That morning, when they had buried the wine barrels in the brush, he had been confused. But now, everything was clear.
The fleeing cavalry reached a riverbank where an old wooden bridge stretched across the water. As soon as they crossed, Geoffrey ordered his men to set it alight.
Flames erupted, engulfing the bridge in an instant.
On the other side, the Highgarden knights skidded to a halt, forced to watch helplessly as the enemy disappeared into the forested hills.
They hadn't even fought a battle—yet they had lost completely.