The banner of the Wolf Pack, torn and bloodied, still flew. Gendry stood over the corpses of the Unsullied, his crude iron mask gleaming, sweat plastering his black hair to his forehead. The Unsullied were brave and fearless, but they were not made of steel.
"Their heads or their hearts!" he had roared to his brothers in the heat of the battle. "One blow, one kill! Do not waste your strength on their limbs. They feel no pain!"
Four more of the slave-soldiers now closed in on him, their movements a blur of bronze shields and flashing spear points. They were silent, their faces impassive, undeterred by the deaths of their comrades. Gendry raised his battered shield and fell back, conserving his energy. He moved with the grace of a shadowcat, his weariness replaced by a cold, clear focus.
The four spears thrust as one. A spearhead glanced off Gendry's black scale armor. The impact was still jarring; the Unsullied were powerfully built, their light infantry training honed to a razor's edge. But they were warriors who fought with honor, their weapons clean of poison. Gendry saw the resolute determination in their eyes. He roared, and his hammer smashed into an Unsullied's faceplate, crushing the man's cheekbone.
The remaining three retracted their spears and thrust upward, aiming for his throat. Gendry leaped backward with a speed that defied his size, a wild stag dodging a hunter's snare. The burning ache in his muscles only fueled his strength. A long arrow whistled past his ear, and one of the Unsullied collapsed, the shaft protruding from his eye socket. It was a gift from Dick the Fletch.
Gendry seized the opening, his hammer a whirlwind of destruction. He smashed at their shields until the wood splintered, then at their faces, until there was nothing left but a ruin of bronze and bone.
"Hurry!" Handsome yelled, but even as he cried out, a Myrish crossbowman fired at him from a nearby rooftop. He dodged the first bolt, but the second caught him in the arm. An instant later, the crossbowman fell, an arrow from Dick's longbow in his throat.
"My thanks, Dick," Handsome grunted, his face pale.
"Save your strength," the old archer replied with a grim chuckle. "It seems my old bones must escort you out of this hellhole."
The Wolf Pack's formation changed direction, a wounded animal turning at bay. They broke through the Unsullied's attack and charged toward the Myrish mercenaries, a less disciplined force. Led by Handsome, they fought their way back toward the smuggler's tunnel, the older and more severely wounded warriors forming a rear guard, sacrificing themselves to protect their brothers. It was the old way of the North, a tradition brought across the sea centuries ago. The old, the young, the unmarried—they would give their lives so that the pack might survive.
Through the deep, dark tunnel they went, and before the second dawn broke, they were back aboard the *Mead*. They were a company of ghosts, their armor battered, their faces etched with grief and rage. Greybeard was not among them.
"Old friend," Salladhor Saan said, his usual flamboyant cheer gone from his voice. "I had feared you would not return."
"Myr no longer welcomes you," the pirate prince continued, his eyes full of a strange sympathy. "Come to Lys with me. I have need of good fighting men. We will all grow rich together."
"We need to consider it," Handsome said, his voice weak. "But first, may I borrow your cabin, old friend? I have taken an arrow to my arm."
Qyburn rushed forward. He cut away the captain's armor, his face grim. The blood around the wound had already begun to turn a sickening, purplish-black. He took Handsome into the cabin, and after a long while, he emerged, the wrinkles on his face deeper than ever. "I am sorry," he said to the assembled men. "The arrow was poisoned. I have saved his arm, but he will never wield a weapon again."
The men of the Wolf Pack did not weep. Their grief was a cold, hard thing, forged into a silent, burning anger.
"The commander is gone," Handsome said from the doorway, his voice raspy. He held up the wolf's head ring. "He gave this to me. And now, I give it to Gendry." He took the ring from his finger and held it out to the boy. "The pack must have its alpha. I will not be called the Wolf Pack's cripple. The position is yours now, boy. If you wish to leave us, I will not hold it against you."
"This is too much," Gendry said, shaking his head.
"Listen to me, child," Handsome insisted. "We are all brave warriors, but a leader must be more. He must be the bravest, the most astute. I see strength in you, and wisdom beyond your years. The Disputed Lands are a chaotic place. You will need both."
"The position is not an easy one," Dick the Fletch added. "You are young, but you must bear the weight of a man twice your age."
Gendry took the ring. It was heavy in his hand, the wolf's head seeming to snarl with a life of its own.
"I will obey the command of the new alpha," Handsome said, and was the first to drop to one knee. "Until death."
One by one, the other survivors of the Wolf Pack followed, until all of them were kneeling before the boy who had saved them. From that moment on, Gendry was no longer just Iron Hammer. He was the alpha, the commander of the Wolf Pack.
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