The sorcerers upon the watchtower began chanting their obscure incantations.
The melody wavered in and out, as though carried from ten thousand leagues above the clouds.
With their chant, the once-calm waters seemed to be draped in a thin veil of milky silk.
That veil thickened rapidly, swelling until it spilled outward from the reservoir banks at a pace visible to the naked eye.
Arthur, sensing danger, drew his greatsword. Like a steel tower, he planted himself firmly before Viserys.
So it was true—water mages!
Seeing the strange power they wielded, Viserys's curiosity flared.
There were more than a hundred of them. If he could absorb every one, he would at once join the ranks of the most formidable water mages in this world.
Before, when he had absorbed those fire mages who delivered themselves to his hands, he had gained the ability to craft wildfire, to perceive fire elements, and to wield certain fire magics.
Now, beholding the spectacle conjured before him, what stirred in his eyes was not fear, but desire.
But though he remained fearless, his soldiers had never seen such a sight.
It was midday, when the sun burned brightest in the sky, yet suddenly a heavy fog was rising.
The cause was obvious—the sorcerers upon the tower.
"Do not fear! The mist clouds only your sight, it cannot harm you.
Form ranks! Raise your shields!"
The king and his Kingsguard stood behind them. For that reason alone, though the soldiers trembled, they did not yet think of fleeing.
Even Arthur felt unease at the strangeness before them.
The mist had spread among the host, descending like a white curtain from the heavens.
It thickened until a man could scarcely see past his own shoulder. Even standing shoulder-to-shoulder, comrades' faces vanished in the haze.
They could hear each other's breath, feel one another's warmth, yet no shape could be seen.
Only by pressing faces close could two men even glimpse each other's features.
"Jason! Jason!"
"I'm here beside you—I hear your voice."
"I… I want to go back."
"Don't say that."
Jason swallowed hard. He remembered why he had come to Gohor: to win a better life for his family.
He must not falter now.
The soldiers whispered anxiously. Never had they known a battlefield so eerie.
Silence, silence, and more silence.
"Hold your ground! Keep the formation!"
At least sound carried unhindered through the fog. The officers' voices still reached the men, steadying their spirits.
Then suddenly, from nowhere, a storm of arrows whistled down. They rattled against shields and armor in a deafening hail.
Fortunately, Viserys's men were few but well-armed.
Before the march, every man had been equipped with new armor. Where plate did not cover, padded cloth had been worn.
Thus, the arrow storm drew blood but did not bring devastation.
"Do not panic! Hold steady! Our armor is strong!"
The officers and heralds shouted, rallying the shaken troops.
But a second volley came, then a third.
Wounded men fell, crying out in pain. Yet all around was the blinding whiteness, hiding everything from sight.
Morale wavered further.
Beyond voices, only the iron tang of blood hung heavy in the air.
Even the stoutest armor could not shield against dread. To face an unseen foe was enough to break any man's courage.
Something must be done—dispel the fog, or retreat.
But Viserys refused to yield yet.
If fire mages consumed fire elements when they wove their spells, then surely these water mages too must deplete the water elements around them.
Their own reserves of power would dwindle as well.
To strike with certainty, Viserys resolved to wait until the fog ceased thickening, or better still, began to thin—then unleash wildfire.
"Hold fast! Any man who flees will be executed! But endure, and each of you shall have a golden dragon!"
He bellowed the promise, and his guards spread his words through the ranks. This was no time to invoke ideals or glory.
Only fear and greed could bind men to their posts.
But what the Targaryens did not know was that every word within the fog carried plainly to those outside.
From a distance, their position resembled a vast cloud squatting upon the earth. Beyond a few hundred paces, all was clear.
"Hah! That little king is already faltering," Terno sneered, having heard Viserys's desperate offer.
Rewards of gold, threats of execution—such things were the resort of commanders on the brink of collapse.
"Elder, I think the time has come—"
At his signal, soldiers bearing great drums marched forth.
They surrounded the fog-bound army, striking a pounding rhythm.
Drums thundered. Hooves rumbled. A troop of cavalry surged forward toward the white shroud.
A narrow gap opened in the mist, and through it the riders' lances swept.
They slashed past the formation, as though scraping scales from a fish, carving flesh and blood from the Targaryen host.
Screams rang out. The stench of blood grew thicker still, gnawing at the soldiers' will.
Terno grinned wide at the sight of dripping lance tips.
"Elder, the moment is right," said a man garbed much like the sorcerers.
"Yes. This Targaryen has endured longer than expected. One more charge, then offer him surrender."
"As you command, Elder," Ruchel replied eagerly.
He was already imagining the ransom. The Targaryens were said to carry much gold—time to bleed them dry.
Again the drums roared, and the cavalry prepared to strike.
Inside the fog, Viserys roared to his men:
"Stand fast! One more charge—then we attack!"
For the first time, he raised his hand and found he could see it clearly. The mist was thinning. The water elements were nearly spent.
"Hold on! One more wave!"
His words, too, carried beyond the fog.
Another rush of wind and gore tore at the formation. The soldiers were at their breaking point.
And then Viserys gave his true order.
"Light it! Light it!"
Jar after jar of wildfire was hurled from the fog, each erupting in green flame.
From outside, it looked as though a white flowerbud had sprouted emerald leaves.
Those leaves burst into fierce heat, rolling outward in a wave. The fog shrank before the wildfire, vanishing at a pace visible to the eye.
"That—that's wildfire!"
Ruchel, who had been readying words of surrender, froze where he stood.
In Essos, wildfire was well-known, and feared.
The sorcerers atop the tower faltered. They could no longer sustain their wall of fog.
In the span of a few breaths, the world cleared once more.
The charging cavalry had no time to react.
The Targaryen soldiers looked down at their fallen comrades, and in the next instant, there was only one course left to them—kill!
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