Gendry's wedge-shaped column pierced the enemy ranks like a sharp spearhead, and in the chaos, he personally struck down Bloodbeard. The Second Sons, the Long Spears, and the Golden Company knights joined his onslaught—iron armor clashing against steel, fists of fury pounding through the battlefield. It was a storm of knights, roaring and unstoppable.
"Long live the Wolves!"
"Long live the Free Army!"
"Break the shackles! Kill these Myr slave owners!" someone shouted, and the cry echoed across the field.
The knights charged through to the far side, and Gendry quickly reorganized his troops. With precision and authority, he launched a second charge that swept from the manor's front gates to its very back, bringing the battle to a decisive end. "Steel Fist," "Lance," and "Grey Wolf" led their wolf packs and Free Army infantry in relentless pursuit, securing a total victory.
Gendry and the officers of the Golden Company rode across the smoldering battlefield. With Bloodbeard dead, the Cat Company's morale shattered. The once-powerful mercenary group—second only to the Golden Company—crumbled into dust.
After this crushing defeat, the people of Myr were struck with terror. Throughout the disputed lands, resistance waned, and the Wolf Packs and Free Army were poised to sweep across the entire region.
"An exiled army, yet remarkably well-trained," Gendry observed. His eyes swept over the ranks of the Golden Company—its officers and common soldiers alike. The Golden Company was indeed wealthy, and their discipline showed in every movement.
Their mercenaries flaunted their riches with the arrogance of the newly rich. They wore jewel-encrusted swords, ornate armor, silk robes, and heavy gold necklaces. Most distinctive were the golden armlets that each man wore—each one representing a year of service in the company, each one worth a lord's ransom.
"Congratulations on your great victory, Commander-in-Chief!" said the homeless Harry, offering polite praise. He couldn't refuse the officers' requests, so he had no choice but to play along.
"I should thank you as well," Gendry replied casually. "Had you arrived any later, the Golden Company might have come straight to my Wolf's Lair to celebrate their victory instead!" Behind him, Long Spear, Grey Wolf, and the others stood silent, blood still fresh on their armor, their presence radiating a fierce, battle-forged energy.
Gendry understood the Golden Company's strategy perfectly. They had waited, watching from a distance, and only advanced when the battle was all but decided—when the Cat Company and the Myr alliance were already doomed. It was not a rescue but an act of opportunism—adding icing to the cake rather than giving aid in a crisis.
"You must be joking, Commander," Harry said, mustering what courage he could. A treasurer by nature, not a warrior, he felt small and fragile before Gendry's commanding presence.
"Please understand," said Golis Edoyin of Valantis, the Golden Company's treasurer, "the Golden Company is a force of ten thousand. We cannot afford to act recklessly or interfere in every local conflict."
"We merely wish to offer a token of goodwill," added intelligence officer Lansono Mar. "The Golden Company will not hinder your campaign, Commander."
"And what of the Golden Team?" Gendry asked, testing their intentions.
"Warriors respect warriors," Lansono replied smoothly. "The Golden Company admires a hero like you, Commander. We support you as a future king—and perhaps, in return, we may one day count on your aid. Westeros is, after all, our true home."
Gendry's laughter was sharp, though not unkind. "Have you truly thought this through? You're far too optimistic. The King has Jon Snow, Barristan, and the Kingslayer at his side—not to mention the armies of the Vale, the North, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands, and the wealth of Highgarden and Casterly Rock behind him."
Leswell Baker raised his fist. "We've been exiles for a century, but we still have friends in the Reach. Highgarden's power isn't as absolute as Mace Tyrell believes. We have allies in Dorne as well."
"We've waited for generations," the intelligence officer added. "We can wait a little longer. The Queen grows more arrogant each year, and Lord Arryn grows older by the day. Duke Renly has ambitions of his own. Our time will come, Commander."
The Golden Company, though stationed far from Westeros, still kept close watch on every rumor crossing the Narrow Sea.
"In my view," Gendry said bluntly, "your dream of returning home is nothing but a bubble. A hundred years ago, neither 'Warrior' Daemon Blackfyre nor 'Cold Iron' Aegor Rivers succeeded. Why would you fare any better now?"
"Perhaps," said Franklin Foghau, another of their officers, "but remember that King Daeron once had Bloodraven as his advisor, and his sons—Baylor the Spearbreaker and Maekar the Hammer—stood united behind him. Today, the Iron Throne is far less stable. There may yet be opportunity."
"The counterattack on Westeros is a grand and perilous task," said the homeless Harry, his tone careful. "It may take a year, five, or ten—no one can say. But we desire friendship, Commander. When the time comes for the Golden Company to cross the Narrow Sea, perhaps your wolves could offer… assistance." He exhaled softly, relieved to speak of a distant future rather than immediate plans. There was still room for negotiation.
"As long as the Golden Company doesn't stand in the way of my conquest of the disputed lands," Gendry said, "I see no harm in offering you my friendship." His tone was vague but intentional. Both sides were making empty promises, but so long as the Golden Company didn't obstruct the Wolf Pack's advance, such mutual assurances would do no harm.
"That's excellent news," Harry said with visible relief. "The new Wolf Pack bears no hostility toward the Golden Company—on the contrary, your cooperation strengthens both sides."
After the Golden Company withdrew, the Long Spear Company, led by its commander, formally surrendered to Gendry. He accepted their allegiance easily, bringing eight hundred cavalrymen into his growing army.
Soon after, Brownie arrived with what remained of the Second Sons. Following Mero's death, the survivors had elected Brownie as their new commander.
"The Second Sons are ready to pledge allegiance to you, Commander-in-Chief," said Ben Plen, the newly elected leader. He laid his longsword at Gendry's feet, then knelt in surrender.
"You look quite different, Commander," Gendry remarked, studying him. Brown Ben was a peculiar man—broad-faced, brown-skinned, his nose crooked and his gray hair thick and unkempt. His large, almond-shaped black eyes betrayed both age and experience. There were lines at their corners, testaments to years of hardship.
"I carry the blood of Braavos, the Summer Isles, Ib, Qohor, the Dothraki, and Dorne," Brown Ben said proudly. "I even have a drop of Targaryen blood."
"Look at our commander—such kindness!" Gendry said to Long Spear, his voice layered with irony.
Brown Ben grinned foolishly, trying to appear humble and harmless.
"I know your story, Brown Ben," Gendry said coldly. "You wear the face of a kind uncle, your smile full of warmth and wisdom. You tell fine stories and act as if you care for all men. But it's all a mask. That smile never reaches your eyes. Behind it lies greed and calculation. You are always hungry… and always wary."
Gendry's words struck like a blade. Brown Ben froze, fear creeping up his spine. Around Gendry stood Long Spear, Grey Wolf, and other wolf warriors—silent, their hands on their weapons. Their eyes were cold iron. They were no longer mere mercenaries but forged wolves of war. A single order would end him.
"Commander-in-Chief, you can't do this!" Brown Ben pleaded. "I've already surrendered!"
A defeated army could not afford pride. Cunning alone could not substitute for valor.
"You're not entirely useless," Gendry said, his tone softening just slightly. "At least your men are skilled at retreating. How many remain?"
"More than four hundred," Brown Ben answered quickly.
"As everyone knows," Gendry continued, "the Second Sons are notorious for breaking their oaths. The Myrmen fear us now—especially the Wolf Pack's fury."
"What do you mean, Commander?" Brown Ben asked cautiously.
"To be frank, I don't trust you," Gendry said flatly. "The Second Sons are too cunning, too self-serving. I could wipe you all out here and now—but I think you might be of better use alive. You'll return to Myr. You know what I expect."
"I understand, Commander-in-Chief!" Brown Ben said immediately. He realized what Gendry intended: to use the Second Sons as spies and informants, serving as "insiders" for the Wolf Pack under the guise of mercenary service to the Myrmen.
"You've already made one mistake," Gendry warned. "Don't make another. If the Second Sons betray me again, when I march on Myr, I'll show you what the wolves do to liars."
Brown Ben swallowed hard. "Rest assured, Commander. There are old mercenaries, and there are bold mercenaries—but there are none who are both old and bold. I won't make the wrong choice again. This time, I'll stand with the victor."
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