The stunned drummers were cut down in an instant.
Arthur led the armored cavalry like a hammer striking through the enemy's riders.
Seeing disaster descend, Terno and Ruchel abandoned their men and fled in madness. The water mages, drained of their strength, were like lambs awaiting slaughter.
Arrows rained upon them, sending bodies plunging into the reservoir with splashes of crimson.
Upon the high platform at the reservoir's center, Fenric looked down at the arrow lodged in his chest.
Blood spread swiftly across his tunic.
He turned his gaze toward the Targaryen army in the distance, where wildfire still roared in green flame.
Clenching his teeth, Fenric snapped the shaft of the arrow, then plunged with a splash into the waters below.
[Essence gained: Elite (Archers) ×277, Veterans (Infantry) ×34, Elite (Cavalry) ×78]
Viserys felt the familiar rush of his golden hand's feedback, yet he could not help a twinge of dissatisfaction. The quality of these troops was pitiful.
But soon the tally of water mages appeared.
[Essence gained: Water Mages ×87, Water Magisters ×33]
"More than thirty magisters!" Viserys was taken aback.
From only a handful of fire magisters, he had already gained remarkable fire-magic abilities. With thirty water magisters, he might be able to fuse something far greater.
As the battle was already won, he hesitated no longer. He chose to fuse the essence of the water magisters.
Consuming thirty of them, a single, blue-glowing essence appeared.
[Essence gained: Water Sorcerer]
A Water Sorcerer. Then surely there must also exist Fire Sorcerers, Blood Sorcerers, and more.
Without delay, Viserys absorbed it.
At once, his senses shifted. A new awareness blossomed, another way of perceiving the world.
He felt the surrounding water elements drained away, yet the twin reservoirs slowly replenished them.
"Hm?"
He detected a cluster of water magic moving swiftly southeast.
"Gerold!"
"My king!"
"In the reeds to the southeast—search there. Someone is hiding. Bring him back alive. I'll execute him myself."
"As you command!"
Gerold did not ask how his king knew. It was enough to obey.
The battle soon ended.
Of Terno's forces, apart from the water mages who had all been cut down, the rest had suffered few losses. Fewer than one in five were slain.
Viserys's army had fared better still—no more than one in ten. Most had survived with wounds, their armor sparing their lives.
Yet armor, even with Braavosi aid and captured spoils, would not last forever.
Viserys resolved that alongside grain, armor too must be produced in his own realm. Never again would he allow himself to be strangled by want of steel.
The prisoners were taken, and the army did not turn back. Instead, it pressed deeper into Terno's domain.
This war's cost, Viserys decided, would be paid for with Terno's lands and wealth. And while he was at it, he would carry off more of their people.
By sunset, Baelor remained behind at the estate, anxious for news of the fighting.
He sat alone in the empty stables, staring up at the moon. He already knew the Targaryen king had attacked.
Yet he felt little fear. He knew of the water mages.
It was thanks to them that the men of Rhoynar had secured their foothold. The young king would surely taste bitter defeat.
Baelor's greater worry was for his family. His friend's evasive answers filled him with dread.
Pain gnawed at his wounds, and hunger hollowed his belly until his mind swam. He longed to sleep, but forced himself to stay awake, to wait for the elder's return.
As he drifted between exhaustion and resolve, a clamor rose within the manor.
Shouts of rage, sobs of fear, horses screaming, the crash of things broken.
"What's happening?"
Baelor struggled to his feet, but the motion tugged his wounded shoulder. He bit down, forcing himself to endure, and staggered toward the manor.
Inside the great hall, Terno was frantically piling up the wealth he had wrung from years of exploitation.
Standing atop a carriage for speed of command—and escape—he barked orders to his servants.
"The iron coins—"
"Leave them! Gold, jewels—take only what is worth the weight! The grain—burn it! Not a kernel left for them!"
Each command bled his heart, but he had no choice. He had raced ahead to the manor by sheer knowledge of the land.
While Viserys's army marched, he would seize what he could. He knew the estate could not be held. Anything saved was already a victory.
"Elder! Elder! Take us with you!"
From the shadows, the serving girls who had long attended him rushed forward.
They too had heard—the Targaryens were coming. To fall captive was cruel for any, but crueller still for women.
But to Terno, women were worth less than gold. He kicked them aside without a thought.
Baelor, watching, could not believe his eyes.
The elder he had longed to meet—why was he now revealed as nothing but a coward?
As Baelor stood frozen, aghast at the chaos before him, a sharp boot caught him from behind.
He stumbled forward several steps, barely keeping his feet. Turning, he saw the elder's steward.
"Why are you standing idle? Help move the elder's things!"
"O… all right."
Baelor answered dully, then fell into line, helping carry treasure.
Just then a soldier burst in, breathless.
"Elder! Disaster! The Targaryens are here!"
"What! Impossible!"
Terno's mind reeled. How could Viserys have arrived so quickly? Had someone betrayed him, shown the way?
But there was no time to puzzle it out. Already the clash of arms and pounding of hooves thundered outside.
The shouts of battle grew nearer, the hoofbeats pressed upon his chest.
"Forget the rest! Harness the carriage!"
The steward, clutching a chest of gold, dropped it in panic. Coins spilled across the floor.
He dashed for the carriage—only to be struck by a blur of gray. The fat steward tumbled to the ground, rolling twice, mud filling his mouth.
"Bah! Who dares—?"
The one who felled him was Baelor.
He seized the carriage, swung astride, and wheeled it toward the manor's back gate.
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