The power of wildfire could be said to be the strongest force in this world.
But it was also the most unstable.
Transporting it was extremely difficult.
Take King Aegon IV, the so-called "Unworthy King," as an example. He once ordered the pyromancers to construct seven "wood-and-iron dragons."
These "dragons" were filled with wildfire in their bellies, intended to be used in an invasion of Dorne.
But before they even reached their destination, one of the so-called dragons caught fire on its own and burned.
So, compared to its creation, transporting wildfire was the greater problem.
Yet Viserys dared not use ordinary flame, fearing it would not be enough to disperse the thick fog summoned by the water mages.
Thus, he had no choice but to sacrifice speed of march in exchange for the safe delivery of wildfire.
Sure enough, before his army even reached the man-made reservoirs in Whitesend, their movements had already been discovered.
Scouts sent ahead had noticed disturbances in the direction of the reservoirs.
"Your Grace, an enemy force of fifteen hundred is already advancing toward us," a young member of the Kingsguard reported.
"Understood."
Viserys lowered his spyglass and gave his reply.
"Do you really think this wildfire can break their water magic?" Oberyn asked, his eyes wary as he glanced at the soldiers burdened with jars of wildfire.
He had seen firsthand the terrifying destruction of wildfire. One wrong move and Viserys's army could suffer catastrophic losses.
To ensure nothing went wrong, Viserys had placed the wildfire under the watch of his personal guard and the elite of the host.
If an accident occurred, the result would be disastrous.
"I don't know. I'm only trying it," Viserys admitted honestly. "The Rhoynar are far more organized than the Andals. If we don't find a way to break their fog magic, I don't know how long it will take to conquer Gohor."
Even he had no certainty in his heart.
This time, his primary goal in battle was not victory—it was escape.
Before setting out, he had ordered that a red feather be fixed atop the helmets of certain junior officers.
As officers, their composure under pressure was stronger than that of ordinary soldiers.
Viserys had told the men that, whether advancing or retreating, they were to keep their eyes fixed on those red feathers.
The purpose was simple: in the event of defeat, the feathers would serve as a guide, helping to minimize casualties in the retreat.
Of course, he had not revealed the true reason to the common soldiers. Otherwise, they would have lost the will to fight.
Only Arthur, Ock, and a few senior commanders had been told the truth.
Hearing Viserys's words, Arthur had already made his own plans.
He divided his cavalry into two groups: one to cover the retreat should the wildfire fail to counter the Rhoynar's fog, the other to carry Viserys safely off the battlefield.
So even though the Targaryens commanded superior numbers, they were fully prepared for the worst.
Soon, the two armies confronted each other between the twin reservoirs.
"Ruchel, go tell that little king this: if he is willing to pay one hundred thousand gold dragons, I will let him leave. And afterwards, I will even allow those peasants of his to build their city wall.
But if he refuses, I will seize him with my own hands and deliver him to that so-called King Robert!"
Terno spoke with arrogant confidence, as if Viserys's five thousand soldiers were nothing more than lambs awaiting slaughter.
"As you command, Elder!" Ruchel replied cheerfully, taking the order without hesitation.
Throughout Terno's host, an air of carelessness and contempt for the enemy prevailed.
So long as the water mages, gathered from across the upper Rhoyne basin, were able to unleash their magic, victory would be utterly one-sided.
When Ruchel once again rode before Viserys, his usual disheveled appearance had vanished. His plump, oily face now bore an expression of stern righteousness.
"King of the Targaryens, why have you come to attack our lands?"
Though Ruchel believed Viserys's forces were no match for the water mages, he had no wish to die here through foolish arrogance.
Only recently, he had profited greatly from fines and extortion. To die before he could spend his wealth was unthinkable.
So, in facing Viserys, he maintained an air of dutiful respect.
"I already told you: you obstructed me from building my city wall. That is preparation for war against me. Since you wish for war, I'll strike first!"
Viserys's defiance left Ruchel almost stunned. This little king truly did not know the meaning of fear.
"So, you are certain you want war?" Ruchel pressed.
Repeating Terno's exact words carried some risk for him. Simply confirming Viserys's intent would be enough.
"Go back and fetch that so-called Elder of yours! Either he gives me men to build my wall, or we fight! There is no third option!"
Viserys bellowed from horseback, looking every inch the warmonger.
He had already made up his mind: this battle would be the test, to learn whether wildfire could truly shatter their water magic.
"You are certain then? War it is?" Ruchel asked once more, his thin brows drawn tight in an attempt to lend himself authority.
But Viserys ignored him completely.
"Forward, the entire host! Archers to the front!" he roared to his men.
Seeing the king's resolve, Ruchel hastily wheeled his horse around, lashing the air so hard with his whip that it left a blur.
The wind of his flight sent his hair streaming back as he sped toward his own lines.
Playing his part well, he leapt from the saddle before his horse had even stopped, letting himself tumble across the ground in a show of desperate haste.
Covered in dust, he came crawling before Fenric.
"Elder, that Targaryen king shows us no respect at all!
He said Valyrians need dragons to defeat the Rhoynar, that he could seize you with a single hand. He is absolutely determined to fight us!
One of his Kingsguard even threatened to kill me. If I hadn't run quickly, I might not be standing here now!"
Ruchel spoke with such conviction that he seemed like a man who had just escaped a brutal slaughter.
"You've done well, Ruchel. I will remember this insult," Fenric replied.
Then, casting his gaze upon the Targaryen host closing fast in the distance, he raised his hand in command.
More than a hundred sorcerers, dressed in blue short-sleeved robes, stepped forward. They boarded a dozen small boats and were rowed out to the tower that stood in the middle of the reservoir like a watchpost.
As the water mages took their places, a smile spread across Ruchel's face.
He knew then that the little Targaryen king was doomed.
Soon, the battlefield would be swallowed by dense fog, blinding the invaders, while their own soldiers—guided by the mages—would strike without restraint.
In Ruchel's mind, he could already see the Targaryen army scattering in terror.
________________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/BloodAncestor