Blazing battle fire raged around Gendry as he swung his heavy mace and charged into the ranks of the Second Sons.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Gendry towered like a storm-born giant. Behind him thundered the Wolf Pack Company Knights—grim northern warriors in dark armor, their strength and ferocity unmatched. Gendry was the storm's heir, and today, he would deliver the tempest's fury.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
The Cat's Company had not expected such a fierce frontal assault at dawn. Panic spread through their lines as a volley of arrows failed to slow the Wolf Pack's advance. Bloodbeard, cruel but battle-hardened, barked orders, but even he could not hide the unease in his voice.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
Under their black and grey banner, the Wolf Pack Knights advanced in full plate and scale armor. Such lavish armament was rare outside the North, yet here in the wealthy Disputed Lands, they had forged an army of iron.
Amid the blaring war horns, Gendry led the spearhead formation like an arrow through flesh—unstoppable. His warhammer rose and fell with brutal rhythm, crushing everything in its path. Knights who dared block his charge were shattered—skulls split, chests caved in, ribs snapping like twigs.
Gendry fought like a man possessed, a blacksmith of death forging ruin with every swing. To him, battle was just another form of hammerwork—measured, relentless, perfect. But men were not steel; they broke too easily.
His horse, a proud Dornish steed, snorted and trampled corpses underfoot. Gendry's strikes were clean and efficient—heavy downward blows, quick parries, brutal counterattacks. His movements embodied the pure essence of war: faster, higher, stronger, deadlier.
Talent made a warrior great; discipline made him invincible. Gendry possessed both in abundance. Through years of relentless training and the raw gift of strength, he had become the pinnacle of human battlecraft—a beacon among warriors.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
The northern knights howled as they slaughtered without pause. The Second Sons began to crumble. Their armor was thin, their weapons inferior, and their spirit weaker still. Seeing the Wolf Pack charging through their ranks like wolves through sheep, panic took hold.
The Second Sons were no strangers to retreat, and soon the field was littered with fleeing men.
"Reform the line! Hold the line!" roared Mero, the Bastard of the Titan, Commander of the Second Sons. Desperation cracked his voice as he shouted orders and sent riders to beg aid from the Cat's Company.
"Useless! A bunch of useless curs!"
The Second Sons' banner—its sword emblem broken—flapped weakly in the wind as their formation disintegrated. From Firegrass Manor, Wolf Pack infantry surged forward behind their shields, while Free Army warriors assembled in support.
Bloodbeard's face twisted in fury. Watching the Second Sons' collapse, he realized the danger. Their failure would doom them all.
"Go! Rescue the Second Sons! I want them alive!" he bellowed, dispatching 150 riders and several hundred mercenaries to aid them.
"To the rest of you—advance! We must break the front before the Unsullied form their tortoise shields! Once they do, we're finished! Push forward!"
Mero watched helplessly as his army of liars and cowards disintegrated. They were scum, but they were his only hope.
He shouted again, his voice echoing across the field—but it was too late.
From the chaos emerged Longspear, his weapon gleaming, death following in his wake. The spear thrust toward Mero with merciless speed.
"Damn it! Where is Cat's Company? That bastard Bloodbeard!" Mero cursed, drawing his steel sword. He raised his shield, barely blocking the first thrust. But the second caught him beneath the arm, slicing open his armpit. Blood poured down his side.
"Bastard!" he roared in agony. His movements slowed, his breath ragged.
Longspear pressed the attack. Mero lifted his shield again, but the spear flicked aside and drove into his throat. Panic flared in his eyes. Coughing blood, Mero spurred his horse, desperate to flee toward the Cat's Company's lines.
But a dark steed suddenly blocked his path. Upon it rode the Head Wolf.
From beneath a crude iron mask, Gendry's eyes burned like twin storms. His mace came down with the weight of a mountain.
Mero parried the first blow, but the force shattered his sword. The second strike smashed through his helm, splitting skull and bone. Blood and brain sprayed through the air as the Bastard of the Titan toppled like a felled oak.
"The Bastard of the Titan is dead!"
The cry echoed over the battlefield.
Cat's Company riders and Free Knights, witnessing Mero's brutal death, faltered. None dared advance; instead, they scrambled to regroup.
By the time the Second Sons managed to form a shaky line, the Wolf Pack Knights had already shifted direction, charging straight for the Three Daughters of Myr.
Their heavy cavalry crashed into the defenders like a storm from the North. The Myrish slave soldiers panicked.
"We surrender!" they cried. "We surrender!"
They turned their weapons not on the Wolf Pack, but on their own masters—the Second Sons and Free Mercenaries.
Within moments, the Wolf Pack Knights overran the defenses. The mighty catapult Wolfslayer was torn down with chains, followed by Glory of Myr and Lady of Myr.
The battlefield dissolved into chaos. Free Mercenaries fled in all directions. Those of the Second Sons who survived threw down their weapons and knelt before Gendry.
At their head rode a man with a broad face, brown skin, and a broken nose. His thick grey hair was streaked with age, his black almond eyes betraying Dothraki blood.
He bowed from his saddle. "We surrender, great liberator—Head Wolf, Commander of the Wolf Pack Company and the Free Army!"
Gendry regarded him coldly. "Who are you?"
"I am Ben Plumm, once of the Second Sons. My brothers have chosen me to surrender on their behalf—to the Wolf King."
"Good," Gendry said. "Mero is dead. Take down your banners and fight with us. You're skilled at running away—let's see if you're half as good at attacking."
Brown Ben grinned. "The Wolf King can rest assured—the Second Sons always side with the victors!"
At his shout, the riders turned their horses and joined the Wolf Pack, charging toward Cat's Company's exposed flank.
The sound of horns rolled like thunder. Arrows rained from the west, unleashed by the longbowmen under the Arrow Maker's command. In the east, shield walls locked tight, and spear formations advanced relentlessly toward Bloodbeard's lines.
Meanwhile, the destruction of the Three Daughters' catapults crushed Myrish morale. Their Free Mercenaries broke ranks, fleeing despite the overseers' whips.
"Useless! All of them useless!" Bloodbeard's eyes were bloodshot with fury. "The catapults are gone! The Second Sons—traitors! The slaves—cowards! Damn them all!"
He looked around and saw his line faltering, his flank collapsing.
"The Second Sons have defected!" shouted a scout. "They're cutting off our retreat with the Wolf Pack and the slave soldiers!"
"What?"
Bloodbeard's world tilted. He had always known these mercenaries were fickle—but not like this.
"Commander! Longspear's Spear Company has turned against us too!"
That was the final blow. Bloodbeard's vision darkened. He should have waited—for the Windblown, or better yet, the Golden Company.
"Commander! We must retreat! If we stay, we all die!"
"Retreat!"
Bloodbeard's roar was part rage, part despair.
But before he could move, a messenger galloped up, face white with terror.
"Commander! The scouts report banners to the rear—Golden Company banners! They've deployed elephants!"
"What?"
Bloodbeard turned. His heart stopped.
In the distance, golden skull banners fluttered in the wind. Between them lumbered massive war elephants, their armor glinting beneath the rising sun.
The Golden Company had rejected Myr's call and joined the Wolf Pack instead.
Bloodbeard's fury drained away, replaced by dread.
"It's over…" he whispered. His great frame trembled. "It's all over."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)