The road ahead was chaos itself. At the very front marched the notorious Brave Companions—bandit mercenaries infamous across the Disputed Lands—laughing crudely as they swaggered forward. Behind them followed the undisciplined troops hastily gathered by the Myrish lords. Horses neighed and snorted as dust clouds rose from the ground. Groups of Free Mercenaries bickered loudly, their quarrels ringing through the air, sounding almost like they enjoyed the disorder they created.
Commander Qobo surveyed the messy procession with a deepening frown. He never trusted slaves, and he trusted the Brave Companions even less. The slaves of Myr had been stirred into restlessness by the Butter-King's growing legend. Rumors spread like wildfire—rumors that made slaves bold and masters uneasy. But the only soldiers Qobo truly depended upon were the thirty Unsullied warriors and the four Meereenese gladiators left to him by his late uncle. They were the greatest treasures of his inheritance, and the only disciplined part of this rabble.
The rest—Free Mercenaries, wanderers, adventurers—were little more than armed vagrants seeking gold. Discipline and loyalty were strangers to them.
"How much longer until we reach the Wolf Pack's territory?" Qobo pressed his horse forward, addressing Goat Varg, the company commander of the Brave Companions. Varg wore his usual grotesque goat-shaped helmet, its curled horns stained from past battles.
"About… about two days," Varg mumbled, his slurred speech making every word drag.
Qobo hid his disgust and forced politeness. "I think we should slow down and wait. It would be far safer to coordinate the attack with the fleet coming from the west, while the forces from Crown Town strike from the south. A three-way assault would be far more secure."
His voice trembled slightly. The name of the Butter-King alone made his stomach churn. Some said the man was a demon of war—an unstoppable force capable of smashing Unsullied and gladiators to pieces with his bare hands. Qobo desperately wished they could hire the Golden Company instead, but their price was far beyond what Governor Joey was willing to pay.
"What's the use of three armies?" Goat Varg growled. "More people means… more fools to share the spoils with." He spat aside. "They're just a bunch of escaped slaves and farmhands pretending to be soldiers. Nothing to fear."
At that moment Shagwell the Clown—one of the most deranged members of the Brave Companions—twirled two freshly decapitated heads by their hair. Making them "talk" to each other, he squeaked, "How did you die?"
The other head answered in a mocking voice, "I supported the Butter-King!"
Several mercenaries burst into laughter. Qobo nearly gagged. The smell of blood mixed with the heat made his head spin, but he held himself together.
"The Wolf Pack Company isn't weak," he warned. "Their core fighters are fierce, and the escaped slaves follow them with fanatical loyalty. If resisting them were easy, half the mercenaries in the Disputed Lands wouldn't already have been crushed."
Shagwell shrugged, juggling the severed heads. "We found two little slave whelps wandering the road earlier. They'd run away from their lord's estate, eager to join the Butter-King. Everyone wants to join him these days."
"That's the worrying part," Qobo murmured. "Everything is too calm. The estates are locked tight, roads are empty, and travelers avoid this entire region. I can feel eyes watching us from every tree."
The Disputed Lands stretched out before them—rolling plains, scattered forests, quiet rivers, and countless estates. The scenery should have been peaceful, but Qobo felt only danger lurking beneath the green.
Shagwell pointed at the distance. "Why don't we raid a few estates? Better we take their gold than let the Wolf Pack have it."
"No!" Qobo snapped. "These estates belong to the governors of Myr. We are here to destroy the Wolf Pack, not create new enemies."
"Boring," Shagwell groaned. "I just want some coins to spend."
Qobo tried to remain patient. "You've already been paid your wages."
"Yes, yes," Shagwell laughed, "cheap wages for cheap soldiers!"
Qobo clenched his jaw. There was a reason most sensible commanders avoided hiring the Brave Companions—madmen were never a reliable investment.
"Pick up the pace!" Goat Varg shouted. "We make camp once we find a safe hill!"
By late afternoon, they spotted a main road and a small hill rising to the left. Just as Qobo was about to order camp, his eyes widened.
On the road ahead stood a shield wall.
Dozens of fighters—slaves, farmers, but united under one banner—held oak shields and wooden barricades. On the hill stood longbowmen and crossbowmen already nocking arrows.
"The Wolf Pack Company!" Qobo gasped. His heart dropped.
A sharp horn blast echoed. War drums thundered across the field.
"Go! Go!" Qobo shouted, his voice cracking with fear.
"Shut… shut your mouth, commander," Varg barked. "To live, you need brothers beside you. These slaves haven't seen real blood."
The Free Mercenaries behind them looked weak, wearing torn chainmail and patched leather armor. Their morale was clearly fragile.
"Fine," Qobo exhaled shakily. "Break their line once and I'll give you twenty Unsullied for the charge!"
Varg's eyes gleamed with greed. He raised his axe high and rallied his men. Together with the twenty Unsullied and a group of mounted knights, he launched the first assault.
Arrows rained down immediately.
"Whoosh!"
"Whoosh!"
Longbowmen's arrows pierced through several charging mercenaries. Crossbow bolts followed, though their range was shorter. The Unsullied, with their shields raised, pushed forward in formation, creating the only stable path through the deadly barrage.
"Push on!" Varg roared. "Break their shields and we win!"
The first clash shook the fields.
"BANG! BANG!"
Unsullied spears drove into the Wolf Pack's shield wall, but the defenders stood firm. Farmers, escaped slaves, and former soldiers blended into a stubborn line. Every time the wall seemed to falter, fresh bodies rushed from the rear to reinforce it.
Qobo leaned forward in his saddle. "They're breaking! Infantry forward! Knights, advance!"
A glimmer of relief washed over him. Perhaps the Wolf Pack was weaker than rumored. Victory seemed within reach. He imagined the wealth he would inherit, the title of governor, the prestige…
But his dream shattered in an instant.
Screams erupted from the right side of the field.
From the forest burst a flood of heavily armored cavalry—fifty, maybe sixty knights in thick black, gray, and iron-scaled armor. Their weapons glinted like death itself.
And at their head rode a terrifying figure.
A rider clad in black scale armor, wearing a crude iron mask and a horned black helm. In his hand was a massive war mace coated in iron spikes.
Qobo felt his blood freeze.
The Black Knight.
Gendry.
The warhammer-forged orphan who rose to become the Wolf Pack's brutal champion.
He swung his mace once.
"CRACK!"
The skull of a Free Mercenary exploded like an overripe melon. Blood sprayed into the air as the man's body collapsed.
The Wolf Pack cavalry roared:
"LONG LIVE THE WOLF PACK!"
"LONG LIVE THE WOLF PACK!"
Meteor hammers spun through the air, crushing bones. Great axes sliced mercenaries clean in half. Longspears skewered horses and men alike. The hill shook as if an earthquake were rolling across it.
The Brave Companions panicked. The Free Mercenaries screamed, scattering like insects under a torch. The shield wall they had attacked only moments ago now surged forward with renewed strength.
Qobo's world tilted. His vision dimmed.
There was no glory. No inheritance. No future.
Only defeat.
And the Wolves danced around them with merciless joy.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)