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"Father, you returned like this?"
Ser Garlan Tyrell, stationed at Bitterbridge, looked at his father, Mace Tyrell, with a mixture of disappointment and concern.
Garlan, the second son of House Tyrell, had been tasked with defending Bitterbridge while his father oversaw the transport of supplies. But last night, Mace had ridden back in disgrace, bringing dire news—everything had been burned.
Garlan sighed inwardly, silently lamenting his father's failure.
Mace watched as his son strapped on his armor and frowned. "Why are you arming yourself?"
"I'm riding out to see what can be salvaged," Garlan replied. "We need something to bring back—anything. Otherwise, how will we face the king? Or my brother? They've sent raven after raven, waiting on these supplies to launch the siege."
With his servants' help, Garlan finished donning his armor, the golden roses on his green surcoat marking him as the second son of Highgarden. Though he bore a striking resemblance to his younger brother, the famed Knight of Flowers, he was taller, broader, and more powerfully built. A slight beard at the corners of his lips made him appear older, more seasoned.
Taking only a hundred cavalrymen, Garlan rode north along the Rose Road.
Along the way, they encountered survivors—villagers and soldiers alike—clad in rags, their bodies blackened with soot, leaning on each other for support. The farther they traveled, the more harrowing the sight became.
Who did this?
As they neared the Kingswood, the fires had begun to die down, but the devastation remained. The road was lined with scorched earth, the charred remains of men and horses strewn across the ground. Even the thick woodland had not been spared. Whoever set these fires had planned it well.
Garlan's frown deepened.
Meanwhile, the arsonists—now a disciplined band of cavalry—were riding along the Mander River toward Greenfield. They moved in silence.
A force had already gathered beneath the walls of Greenfield.
As the riders approached, the waiting soldiers immediately assumed a defensive stance, prepared for battle.
From within their ranks, Ser Geoffrey emerged. His face was lined with exhaustion, but anger burned in his eyes.
The moment he saw Cole, his tension eased slightly, though a trace of worry remained.
"Lord Julius, you're back," Geoffrey called, spurring his horse forward.
Cole, visibly weary, managed a small smile. "I am. But why are you gathered outside the city? Why not set camp—or enter the gates?"
Geoffrey's expression darkened. "Ser, when we approached the walls, Baron Medway had already sealed the gates. Then he ordered his archers to fire on us."
Cole gave a slow nod, unfazed. "Let the men switch horses."
"Ser, our horses have been taken into the city," Geoffrey muttered bitterly.
Cole exhaled. Betrayal had come faster than expected. And where there was one traitor, there would always be more.
Without another word, he led his men toward the castle.
A figure appeared atop the city walls—Baron Medway. The stone ramparts rose more than ten feet high, his voice carrying downward with ease.
"Ser Julius, have you been defeated?" Medway sneered. "Lord Stannis placed his trust in you, and this is how you repay him?"
He didn't even call him king.
Dust-covered knights stood behind Cole, their expressions grim. The army had suffered heavy casualties—it was plain to see.
Geoffrey stepped forward, but Cole stopped him with a shake of his head.
There was nothing more to say.
"Ser Medway, are you going to betray your oath to His Majesty Stannis?" Cole called up to the walls.
"You do not speak for the king, my lord," Medway replied, his tone laced with arrogance. "I simply believe you are unfit to lead us. This is my land, my castle—what right do you have to command me? Look around you. Who among these knights is not of higher birth than you?"
He clearly expected support, but the silence that followed was deafening. Eyes turned toward him, but no one spoke. This wasn't how it was supposed to go—he had gauged their discontent, whispered in the right ears. Surely others shared his doubts.
"Ser Geoffrey Florent, we agreed on this," Medway pressed, trying to drag Geoffrey into his treachery.
Geoffrey's expression darkened. "Elwood Medway, I will not conspire with a traitor. I may have had my doubts about Lord Julius at first, but my loyalty is to His Majesty. I follow the king's orders, not yours."
Cole's voice rang out again. "Ser Medway, if you do not return our horses and supplies, I will have no choice but to inform His Majesty that you've sworn fealty to Renly."
Medway scoffed. "I trust Lord Stannis will judge the truth for himself. You should worry more about explaining your own failure, Cole Julius."
Cole shook his head, and Geoffrey caught the faintest trace of a smile beneath his weary expression.
"Baron Medway does not welcome us," Cole said simply. "Then we have no choice but to leave."
As the cavalry withdrew, Medway watched them with disdain. Where could they possibly go? Renly controlled the entire south. No one would dare shelter Stannis's men.
But Medway had made a fatal mistake. He had sheltered them, and House Tyrell knew it.
Days later, an army from Highgarden arrived at Greenfield, surrounding the castle and taking Medway completely by surprise. The Tyrells came in force, and they came with fury.
His betrayal had not gone unnoticed. House Medway had long been vassals of Highgarden, and now the Reach lords saw him as nothing but a treacherous rat.
Only then did Medway realize the truth—Cole had not failed. He had burned the Tyrell army's food stores, leaving them in chaos. The Reach lords, humiliated and furious, turned their wrath on Medway's castle.
Cole, meanwhile, had never intended to hold the castle. He simply needed fresh horses before leading his men toward the Dornish Mountains, where his ally—that plump little lord, Duram Bar Emmon—had already secured a base.
The delay had slowed their march, but it had also misled their pursuers. The Tyrells, thinking they had holed up in Greenfield, stormed the castle only to find a collection of abandoned horses.
Elwood Medway was captured and sent to Storm's End in chains.
With the traitor delivered, Mace Tyrell finally had an excuse to offer his king. Not that Medway ever stopped protesting his innocence.
When Cole and his men reached their mountain stronghold, they were met by Duram Bar Emmon himself.
Without hesitation, the young lord penned a letter and sent it by ship to Storm's End. Though Renly's forces had surrounded the fortress, the sea still belonged to Stannis.
The message soon reached Dragonstone.
Within the castle walls of Storm's End, the news spread like wildfire. A great weight had been lifted from their shoulders—their dire situation had improved overnight.
But in Renly's camp, the silence was telling.
They had waited patiently, securing every advantage, knowing that once the supply train arrived, they could launch an all-out assault. But now, at the most crucial moment, everything had gone terribly wrong.
A hungry army was a dangerous thing. Without food, their authority meant little.
Defections could be tolerated.
Rebellion could not.