Gendry rode at the head of the column on a black Dornish courser, its powerful legs carrying him swiftly beyond Myr's eastern gate. At his side rode Anguy, Ser Jorah Mormont, Longspear Rakharo, and several other trusted companions. The early sunlight bathed the land east of Myr in warm gold, revealing gentle hills and wide, fertile plains that stretched as far as the eye could see.
These lands were rich.
Grain could grow here in abundance. Orchards flourished with pears and olives, and even gunpowder herbs thrived in the loamy soil. From a civilian perspective, this was paradise.
From a military perspective, it was a nightmare.
The land east of Myr, much like the Disputed Lands beyond it, was flat and open. There were no mountains, no forests thick enough to slow an army, no narrow passes that could be easily defended. It was terrain made for cavalry—especially for the horse peoples of the Dothraki Sea.
That was precisely why Essos had become their playground.
As the riders passed, Free Folk working the fields set down their tools and bowed. Gendry stood out immediately, even among mounted warriors. At six feet four inches tall and still growing, his broad shoulders and solid build made him impossible to miss.
"The Liberator!"
"The Liberator!"
The cries rose from the fields, spreading like ripples across the farmland. Gendry raised a hand in response, acknowledging them with a brief wave. Myr's climate was mild, its seasons forgiving, and its land generous. With proper development and protection, it could support not only its people, but vast armies.
Given time, it could become a war engine.
"This land is too good," Ser Jorah said grimly, gazing toward the distant east. "Too open. Too exposed. The Free Cities fear these plains for a reason. The Dothraki have haunted them for generations."
He paused before continuing, his voice heavy.
"They're terrified."
Jorah had lived among the Dothraki. He understood them better than most men alive.
"In Westeros, castles dominate the land," Jorah went on. "Casterly Rock, Storm's End, the Eyrie—fortresses that cannot be taken by brute force alone. Even smaller lords maintain keeps and towers, each bound by feudal duty to raise men in war."
He gestured broadly at the plains.
"But here? Outside the city walls, there is nothing. No towns. No castles. Only farms and mines. The Free Cities dared not build more, fearing they would only give the Dothraki targets to burn."
"Myr is no different," Anguy added. "Beyond its walls, there's nothing to fall back on."
Gendry nodded thoughtfully.
"Jorah," he said, "you've ridden with them. Fought beside them. Tell me plainly—what separates the Dothraki from knights?"
Jorah considered the question carefully.
"When I was first exiled, I thought them little more than naked savages," he admitted. "Wild men on wild horses."
He shook his head.
"I was wrong."
"Their horsemanship surpasses any knight. They fear nothing. Their bows outrange ours, and they fire them from horseback, advancing and retreating without breaking formation. Westerosi archers hide behind shields and stakes. Dothraki screamers shoot while charging."
"Well said," Gendry replied calmly. "Their numbers are vast, and they don't fear death."
He paused, then added quietly, "But we have armor. Discipline. And position."
"True," Jorah said, though concern still lined his face. "But if Khal Drogo gathers forty or fifty thousand screamers…"
His voice trailed off.
"At the Trident, Prince Rhaegar brought forty thousand men," Gendry said evenly. "Less than a tenth were knights. When he fell, the rest broke."
"Times have changed," Anguy said with confidence. "We have a standing army now."
Gendry smiled faintly.
"Drogo is fierce," he said. "But he is predictable. He despises sieges. He craves open battle."
He turned his horse, gazing back toward Myr.
"He will come for me."
Everyone fell silent.
"He calls himself the Khal of Khals. He won't allow his people's prestige to be eroded by another king. He will come to Myr for a decisive battle."
Gendry's eyes sharpened.
"That's exactly what I want."
Victory was not enough.
He wanted annihilation.
A battlefield had already been chosen—a broad semicircle east of Myr, shaped to force the Dothraki where Gendry wanted them. Trenches were being dug, earthworks raised, and chevaux de frise carefully placed to break cavalry charges.
Two trench lines. Two raised embankments.
Above them: ballistae, catapults, boiling oil—and trebuchets.
The sea itself would be part of the defense. Myr faced the water, and Gendry had no intention of ignoring that advantage. The Myrish fleet stood ready.
And so did his armies.
Heavy cavalry.
Light horse.
Infantry.
Longbowmen.
Unsullied.
Norvos Holy Guard.
Even escaped gladiators from Meereen.
"This battle will break the Dothraki myth," Gendry said softly. "Blunt their charge. Bleed their morale. Then take the head."
Two kings.
One battlefield.
---
Across the Narrow Sea, another kind of war was unfolding.
In King's Landing, outside the city walls, tents had been raised along the riverbank—more than a hundred of them. The Tourney had drawn crowds from every corner of the realm. Hundreds of thousands of common folk gathered, filling the fields with noise and color.
Jon Snow stood among them, breath caught in his chest.
Shining armor gleamed beneath the sun. Warhorses stamped and snorted, draped in silks of gold and silver. Banners snapped in the wind as cheers rolled like thunder across the grounds.
Jon wore plain clothes, his scarred face unnoticed among the masses. Beside him stood Mikken, eyes wide with awe.
But Jon wasn't here merely to watch.
He studied.
He listened.
He observed.
Only now did he truly understand why the common folk loved tourneys. Not just for spectacle, but for livelihood. Wagers were made. Food was sold. Songs were sung.
Make the people happy. Let them profit.
Among the nobles, Jon spotted a familiar figure.
Sansa.
She descended from a yellow-silk sedan chair, accompanied by Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole. Her green gown shimmered, complementing her auburn hair.
"How beautiful," she said happily.
Their eyes met for a fleeting moment.
Sansa saw him.
She pretended not to.
Jon sighed inwardly.
King's Landing was no place for dreams.
The Kingsguard drew the loudest cheers. White cloaks flowed like snow, armor polished to brilliance. And at their center—
Ser Jaime Lannister.
Gold from head to toe. Lion helm. Golden sword.
The Kingslayer.
Jon felt the tension rise.
Then the ground seemed to tremble.
The Mountain appeared.
Ser Gregor Clegane towered over all others—eight feet tall, shoulders like a fortress, arms as thick as tree trunks. He moved with frightening speed for someone so massive.
Jon's heart sank.
Kingslayer. The Hound. And now this.
"No one in the North could match him," Jon realized bitterly.
Not Jory.
Not any of his father's guards.
The truth stung.
As the jousts continued, Jon identified knights by their banners: Redwyne twins, Summer Islander princes, Royce heirs, Beric Dondarrion with his lightning bolt shield.
Then—
Ser Hugh of the Vale.
Jon's breath caught.
The boy lined up against the Mountain.
"No… no…"
The lance struck beneath Hugh's gorget.
Clean.
Fatal.
Blood flowed.
The Mountain did not apologize.
Sansa watched from nearby.
Jeyne cried.
Jon felt ice crawl down his spine.
This was power.
The final four remained.
Loras Tyrell.
Jaime Lannister.
The Hound.
The Mountain.
Flowers among beasts.
Jon turned away, heart heavy.
The Lannisters were everywhere.
And danger was closing in.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)