Blood and dust still clung to the battlefield like a lingering fog when Gendry finally dismounted from his war-weary horse. His boots sank slightly into the churned earth—an uneven mixture of mud, blood, and shattered armor plates. He bent, lifted his blood-coated mace, and exhaled slowly.
"A mace never disappoints," he muttered, wiping the sticky red smear from the weapon onto the jester-striped robes of a fallen Brave Companion. "As long as you have the strength behind it, a blunt weapon is the deadliest thing on any battlefield." He lifted the mace, feeling its weight. "If only it were Valyrian steel…"
No living enemies remained in his immediate reach—only corpses, some twisted, some headless, some bearing the familiar sigil of the Brave Companions. Their torn black goat banners lay scattered like scraps of dark cloth in the wind. The mercenary band—those butchers, thieves, and criminals—had finally met the end they deserved.
The Knights of the Wolf Pack Company rode across the battlefield in disciplined formations. Their heavy warhorses trampled fallen bodies without hesitation. Longspears glittered in the sun. Morningstars swung like deadly pendulums as the knights finished off stragglers and cut down the few Free Knights foolish enough to continue resisting.
The main battle had essentially concluded. Only one thing remained: the tight circular shield wall pressing slowly against the final pocket of survivors—the Unsullied.
Of the original twenty that faced them, only fifteen remained standing. They now resembled a battered vessel tossed in the ocean of war: dented shields, cracked spears, bodies drenched in sweat and blood. Yet none of them stepped back. None even considered retreat.
Longspear, commander of the Wolf Pack cavalry, rode toward Gendry with several knights. He reined in his horse and saluted. His helmet spikes had broken during the fight, but he bore no injury beyond that.
"We have won, Commander-in-Chief," he announced. "The Myrish Commander fled early with some rear-guard troops. Everyone else has been devoured by our forces."
The knights stared eagerly at the encircled Unsullied, waiting for the order to finish them.
Steel Fist arrived next, leading the infantry and Free Army. They moved through the battlefield to disarm prisoners, collect usable armor and weaponry, and strip the Brave Companions of anything of value. Such spoils could not be wasted—not in the Disputed Lands.
Only one command waited for Gendry's voice.
"'Kill the Unsullied,' or 'take them alive.' Either way, they will obey instantly," Gendry thought.
He stared at the fifteen surviving warriors. Any other army would have broken long ago. But not these men—castrated from childhood, trained to feel no pain, conditioned to fight without fear. They were loyal only to discipline.
Gendry exhaled.
"Let them go."
Steel Fist blinked, stunned. "Commander-in-Chief… the Unsullied fight to the death. They don't surrender. If we release them, they may return as enemies."
"They are slaves," Gendry replied. "Unwilling ones. We are not their enemies. Open a path. If they try to attack us, then we'll respond in kind."
The shield wall slowly broke apart, leaving a narrow corridor between the heavily-armed soldiers. The fifteen Unsullied stared in confusion, gripping their shields and longspears. Blood ran down their shaved heads. Their breaths came in heavy, disciplined rhythms. They had no fatal wounds, but their bodies bore the scars of relentless combat.
"Freedom!" Gendry shouted across the newly opened path. "You are free. The Commander of Myr has abandoned you. The Brave Companions are destroyed. You may fight us… or you may return to Myr. The choice is yours."
The Unsullied looked at one another. They had never heard their fate spoken of as a choice.
The leader—a man with two metal spikes embedded into his skull—stepped forward. He examined Gendry with unreadable eyes. Then he dropped his shield and spear and fell to his knees.
"Freedom."
One by one, the remaining Unsullied followed. Fifteen hardened warriors kneeling on blood-soaked earth, shouting the same word they had been denied all their lives.
Gendry accepted their fealty. He reached down, pulled the Unsullied leader to his feet, and embraced him.
"Rise, comrade," he said. "From today onward, you may choose your own names. Choose your own officers. No more rotating names. No more chains."
Emotion—pure, unfiltered, human emotion—flashed across the eyes of the Unsullied. For them, this moment was more precious than victory, food, or breath.
"Steel Fist," Gendry commanded next, "cut off the heads of the Brave Companions and impale them on longspears. Let every man see what becomes of slavers and monsters."
The battlefield erupted into motion. Knights, infantry, and even the newly joined Unsullied took part. Vargo Hoat's snarling head was the first to be impaled, followed by Urter the twisted monk, the Jester, and others known only by whispered horrors. Their severed heads were placed along the coastline and the manor approach—grim warnings to the world.
Meanwhile, the surviving Free Mercenaries surrendered in groups. None dared lift their eyes to meet Gendry's.
"You have two choices," Gendry told them. "Swear yourselves to my command and abide by the Wolf Pack's military discipline… or discard your weapons, pay a ransom, and leave the Disputed Lands forever."
They listened in silence. No one dared to refuse.
When the battlefield finally settled, Gendry walked toward the edge of the coastline. The Narrow Sea glimmered under the afternoon sun. In the far distance, across the shifting blue waves, lay Westeros—his home. Fate, in its strange cruelty or design, had thrown him far from it. Yet here he stood now, holding land, commanding armies, shaping history.
Grey Wolf—the leader of the newly freed Unsullied—stood nearby, guarding him.
"My name at birth was cursed," Grey Wolf explained when asked. "Because of this, I was sold into slavery. But on the day you freed me, I chose the name Grey Wolf. It suits me. It reminds me that I am no longer a dog of Myr."
Gendry nodded with approval.
Maester Qyburn approached slowly, his worn robes fluttering in the sea breeze. His expression was unusually complicated.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing respectfully, "I bring two pieces of news you may find important."
"Hopefully pleasant ones," Gendry said dryly.
Qyburn raised a brow. "That depends."
"The first," he continued, "is a proposed alliance. The Commander of the Cat's Company wishes to join forces with us to attack and plunder Myr."
Gendry snorted. "Bloodbeard? That brute? Our army does not accept trash. His reputation is filthier than a Flea Bottom gutter. I have no desire to work alongside murderers who only want to burn and loot."
Bloodbeard was infamous—a towering barbarian with a beard as fiery as his temper, broad shoulders, and a lust for gold, wine, and cruelty. Though deadly in battle, he was uncontrollable and unpredictable.
"Refusing him outright may anger him," Qyburn warned.
"Then let him be angry," Gendry replied. "Better that than letting him corrupt my forces."
He paused, thinking.
"But to keep him distracted… send word to the Windblown. They hold grudges against the Cat's Company. If Bloodbeard comes for us, the Windblown can strike at his rear."
Qyburn nodded. "Very wise."
"And your second piece of news?"
Qyburn's lips twitched into an odd smile—part amusement, part disbelief.
"Well… this visitor is most distinguished. I believe… you will want to meet him personally."
"Who?"
"The Red Viper," Qyburn said. "Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne."
Gendry froze.
Oberyn Martell—infamous across the continent. Poisoner. Warrior. Lover. Scholar. Viper.
"What in the Seven Hells is he doing here?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn bowed again. "He claims to come in peace… and with an offer."
The wind off the Narrow Sea grew colder, sharper—carrying with it the scent of the future. A future full of alliances, betrayals, and serpents whose bite could topple kingdoms.
Gendry lifted his mace and looked toward the coastline.
"The Red Viper," he murmured. "Very well. Let us see what game he intends to play."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)