The storm had arrived, and with it, Gendry unleashed a fury as dark and merciless as the clouds boiling above. His massive mace rose and fell with brutal precision, each swing carving a path through chaos. Horses shrieked, iron clashed, and the scent of blood thickened the air.
Longspear and the Wolf Pack Company cavalry charged alongside him, their formation slicing into the enemy ranks like a sharpened blade. The reckless fighters who had dared rush the shield wall were now sprawled across the ground—broken, crushed, or simply gone.
"Seven hells—it's the Butter-King!"
"It's the Commander-in-Chief of the Wolf Pack!" shocked voices from the Free Mercenaries of Myr echoed through the madness.
Gendry looked every bit the fearsome head wolf they claimed him to be. Towering in the saddle, his presence radiated cold, merciless authority. His deep blue eyes shone like frozen seas, and the raised mace in his grip gleamed with a chilling light—death itself seemed to whisper along its edge.
The Mercenaries of Myr were not idiots. They knew their heads were not harder than those of the Meereen Gladiators or the Unsullied. They also knew who Gendry was, and they wanted no part of him.
"Run!" shouted Qobo, leader of the Free Army, abandoning all thought of formations and tactics. His proud lines, once arranged with such care, fell apart the moment he glimpsed Gendry bearing down upon them.
Qobo felt his soul fly out of his body. He no longer had the courage to continue the bloody struggle. Supported by the few Unsullied and Gladiators still nearby, he turned and fled the field as though the hounds of hell were at his heels.
Behind him, the rear formation collapsed instantly. Hundreds of Free Knights, Brave Companions, and remaining Unsullied were left trapped in the Wolf Pack's encirclement. They faced certain doom.
"Draw bows—loose!" Black Billy and the Arrow Maker commanded from atop the nearby hill. Another rain of arrows hissed downward, striking the already panicked and disordered Myrish cavalry.
Warhorses shrieked as arrows pierced their flanks. Some reared uncontrollably, others toppled over with thunderous crashes, crushing the unlucky mercenaries beneath them. Those who didn't die immediately screamed for help—but help never came.
The shield wall still held firm. Through this iron barrier, Gendry burst forward with his cavalry, hammering into the disorganized enemy.
One brave Myrish soldier threw himself at Gendry with a shout.
Gendry barely looked at him.
The mace slammed into the mercenary's face, smashing through his cheekplate, bone, and flesh. The man collapsed like a felled tree. Gendry had already moved on, his eyes fixed on the Brave Companions and the Unsullied—the true threat.
He meant to crush them.
Sensing the tide shifting, Varg, captain of the Brave Companions, immediately ordered his elite unit to retreat. The moment Varg turned his striped zebra mount around, the entire vanguard crumbled. The Free Knights scattered like leaves in a gale. Looking back, they saw Qobo's reserve forces had completely abandoned them.
Only twenty Unsullied remained. They lifted their short spears and continued their march toward the shield formation with unwavering discipline. They fought grimly, refusing to retreat, but twenty could not shift the balance of a battlefield drowning in thousands.
"Leave those stubborn Unsullied for now—first kill the Goat and his filth," Gendry commanded.
Longspear instantly understood.
Varg the Goat was unmistakable. His grotesque goat-shaped helmet, his gaunt figure, the black-and-white zebra—he might as well have painted a target on himself. His goatee, his rusted-looking face, the necklace of coins from every battlefield he'd pillaged—they marked him as one of the greatest villains of Essos.
And Gendry wanted him dead.
Gendry charged with a roar that rattled even the bravest hearts. Varg swung his longsword desperately to block the blow. The mace crashed into his weapon with such force that Varg staggered, pain shooting up his arm as if he had taken a hammer strike to the bone.
"Kid! Kid! I misjudged you!" Varg shouted, half-panicked, half-enraged.
He hacked wildly at Gendry—swinging at his head, shoulders, anywhere he could reach. Sparks flew as the weapons collided. Varg's strikes were fierce; he was no stranger to war. His movements were agile, his blade quick and deadly.
But strength—true, overwhelming strength—made all the difference.
And Gendry possessed it in terrifying abundance.
Worse for Varg, he couldn't even concentrate. A quick glance around broke his already-fraying sanity. He saw the Northmen cutting down his men without mercy. Steel Fist and the Knights crushed Brave Companions beneath their armored hooves, splintering through their lines again and again.
Varg felt panic swell. He slashed at Gendry recklessly, but each stroke simply clanged off the thick black scale armor. Without Valyrian steel, his longsword might as well have been a wooden stick.
"Die!" Gendry bellowed, flames of battle burning in his eyes.
He found the rhythm of a blacksmith at work—the steady, unstoppable flow of raw power.
Hammer blow after hammer blow crashed down onto Varg.
The first strike knocked loose the Goat helmet, sending it spinning into the air. Varg's long, bony face—marked with dirt and dried blood—was exposed. His eyes were wide with terror. Even a monster who had committed countless atrocities trembled before death.
"Forgive me! Black Goat God!" Varg whispered desperately.
The plea never finished.
"Bang!"
Gendry's hammer came down on his skull.
Bone, blood, and brain burst outward like a ghastly flower of crimson mist. Varg's lifeless body slumped forward, sliding off the zebra.
The zebra screamed and bolted, but an arrow pierced its neck moments later.
"The Goat is dead!" Gendry roared, voice echoing across the entire battlefield. "The Goat is dead!"
A tidal wave of panic swept over the remaining mercenaries. Their commander had fled. Their infamous captain was dead. Their lines were broken, their formations destroyed.
"You killed the captain, you lunatic!" shrieked a voice.
It was Shagwell, the Jester—a twisted man in mismatched green and pink, wearing light chainmail beneath his garish outfit. His grin was crazed, and a three-headed flail swung wildly in his hands.
The Jester loved cruel jokes; death was his favorite punchline.
He swept the flail with incredible speed. The chains wrapped around Gendry's mace and held it tight.
Shagwell's eyes lit up.
"Die, wolf cub!" he laughed, pulling out a black dagger and lunging at the gaps in Gendry's armor.
But Gendry did the unexpected.
He released his mace.
Before Shagwell could react, Gendry's arakh whistled through the air.
In a single clean stroke, it sliced through the Jester's neck.
His head rolled to the ground—expression frozen mid-laugh. For the first time in his life, Shagwell had no more jokes to tell.
"Kill all the Brave Companions!"
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
The Wolf Pack Knights surged forward, charging again and again. They trampled the criminals, cut down the fleeing mercenaries, and pursued the last remnants of Varg's infamous company.
The Brave Companions, long known as an army of murderers and scum, met the end they deserved.
Steel Fist and the cavalry crashed through them repeatedly, leaving the earth torn and soaked with blood.
"Surrender!"
"We surrender!"
The remaining Free Mercenaries dropped their weapons, falling to their knees. No one wanted to die for coin anymore. The gold they had been promised suddenly seemed meaningless when survival itself slipped through their fingers.
They regretted ever taking this contract. The payment had indeed been generous—but no amount of silver could buy back a lost life.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)