After nearly a month of preparations, both sides seemed to wordlessly agree on a day to gather their forces.
Viserys had only seven thousand soldiers at the moment.
The Rhoynar, however, had gathered more than fifty thousand.
But numbers were their only advantage.
Viserys' seven thousand were fully armored—every single man—and far better trained.
The Rhoynar wore mismatched, worn-out armor, and even then, eight or nine fighters often had to share a single set. Their quality was poor.
Many of them carried farming tools instead of weapons. Their food situation was even worse.
If Lothan hadn't emptied his personal granaries, even more of them would have starved.
Arthur and Viserys brought fifteen hundred men to the Prince's Forest. Viserys came in person for one reason—to distract Gafas and give Arthur room to strike.
Gafas had stationed his entire force on the high ground before the forest. When he saw the Targaryen banners—three-headed dragon flags snapping in the wind—his heart tightened.
Their formation was thin, barely a thousand men visible.
But the sight of a fully armored force, every soldier clad head to toe, felt like staring down a tide of steel ready to crash forward at any moment.
Most conspicuous of all was the knight at their front—gleaming silver armor, unmistakable.
Gafas knew exactly who that was: Viserys' sharpest blade, Arthur Dayne.
A weight pressed onto his chest.
Arthur's reputation needed no explanation. The difference in momentum between the two armies was overwhelming.
Even the Rhoynar behind Gafas were trembling—their sweaty hands slipping on the shafts of their spears. Not long ago, those hands had been gripping hoes and plow handles.
Most of them had never been on a battlefield.
This was a professional army facing a tide of desperate peasants. Many felt their legs shake. Their mouths dried.
Then— A loud growl echoed. Someone's stomach.
No one laughed. Most of them were starving.
Gafas believed cannon fodder didn't need to be fed well. Better to save the grain for himself and renovate his manor later.
Besides, he had ten times Viserys' numbers. Even their bones, he believed, would dull Westerosi steel.
As Gafas studied Viserys' battle line, a mounted knight stepped forward from the Targaryen ranks.
Clement rode out holding the "Prince's Spear," raising his voice so Gafas—surrounded by armored guards—could hear.
"Our king has found the Prince's Spear. Yet you refuse to honor your agreement. Who, then, is breaking their word?"
Gafas curled his lip and motioned for one of his attendants to shout back, "Your little king picked up a stick somewhere and claims it's the Spear. Do you take the Rhoynar for fools?"
"Nonsense! He's never seen the Spear—how dare he accuse our king of lying?"
"Elder Lothan would never lie!"
"So you refuse to submit? Fine. We'll see you on the battlefield tomorrow!"
Clement spun his horse and rode back.
Gafas, instead of feeling challenged, felt… disappointed.
"Why tomorrow?" he muttered.
He soon understood.
When the sun set, a rich aroma drifted from the Targaryen camp. Viserys, wanting the smell to carry, used spices lavishly.
The intoxicating scent drifted far, making the Rhoynar lie awake, stomachs twisting with hunger.
"Leko… I'm starving," one whispered.
"Yeah… try to sleep. If you sleep, you won't be hungry," Leko answered, remembering a trick his mother once told him.
Because of the war, his mother and grandmother had been moved to the rear.
His mother, still young, was posted on another defensive line. Had his stubborn grandmother not insisted on staying, they would have joined Viserys two months ago.
People who went there said the young king only took one-third the tax that the elders demanded.
He lent out tools and livestock.
"If only he really had found the Prince's Spear," Leko whispered.
While most Rhoynar tossed and turned, Gafas stuffed himself—smoked chicken, ham, and more.
The full stomach made him sleepy, but thoughts of his bright future kept him pacing through the camp.
Seeing his shivering, starving soldiers—some covering their heads with their clothes—made him furious.
"Stand up! You shameful wretches! Do you even know the meaning of pride? Are you still Rhoynar warriors?!"
He cracked his whip, swinging it to display authority.
He was greedy, yes, but he knew to keep his personal guards fed. The starving peasants had no will to resist when they saw the strong, broad-shouldered soldiers behind him.
After ensuring there were no obvious gaps in his defenses, Gafas returned to his tent.
"Wake me before dawn," he ordered.
He lay down on his soft bed and lifted the blanket—revealing a warm, naked body waiting there for him.
Meanwhile— Arthur led five hundred men toward the secret path Lothan had revealed. But Viserys didn't fully trust Lothan.
If Arthur died here, he would regret it bitterly.
So he sent scouts ahead first to ensure there were no traps or ambushes. Only after receiving confirmation did he allow Arthur to move in.
Most of the soldiers were from Dragonstone.
At Viserys' request, Arthur also brought dozens of Rhoynar—those who had belonged to Terno's faction, the first to join Viserys.
Baelor led them.
He had seen the Prince's Spear with his own eyes.
He had also seen how the Rhoynar lived under Viserys. Most importantly, he had reunited with his mother and two sisters.
Their task was simple: once Arthur captured or executed Gafas, they would soothe the Rhoynar soldiers and persuade them to surrender.
The Rhoynar camp was eerily quiet—so quiet it felt dead.
Arthur split his forces into several groups. With Rhoynar guides covering them, they slipped toward Gafas' tent.
It wasn't difficult.
Gafas' tent was enormous and easy to spot. Even in darkness, its hulking shape marked the direction.
If anyone was unsure, Baelor could simply walk up and ask.
The attack went smoothly. No one cared about a group of unfamiliar figures moving through the camp.
Not until Arthur reached the blue tent.
With one swift stroke, he dispatched the guards.
Inside, Gafas remained oblivious—busily occupied and in a very good mood. His partner, however, had long been exhausted.
A sudden chill brushed his skin.
He smelled steel and leather.
He turned.
A tall figure stood in the entrance, staring down at him with cold, expressionless eyes.
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