The storm had arrived, and Gendry was its heart. He raised his warhammer, a whirlwind of black steel and righteous fury. Horses screamed as Longspear and the Wolf Pack cavalry charged with him, cutting through the enemy's formation like a scythe through wheat. The reckless fools who had charged the shield wall were annihilated.
"Gods save us! It's the Butter-King!" a Myrish sellsword shrieked in terror.
The sight of the Wolf Pack's commander on his black warhorse was a vision from a nightmare. He was tall and powerful, his deep blue eyes burning with a cold fire, his warhammer glowing with an eerie light, a harbinger of death. The mercenaries were not fools. They did not believe their heads were any harder than those of the Meereenese gladiators or the Unsullied.
"Run!" Qobo screamed, abandoning all pretense of command. The moment he saw the Butter-King, his courage had evaporated. He fled, his remaining Unsullied and gladiators forming a desperate rearguard. The rest of his army scattered like birds, leaving the Brave Companions and a handful of freelance knights to be devoured by the Wolf Pack.
"Archers, fire!" Black Billy and Dick the Fletch commanded from the hill, and another volley of arrows rained down upon the trapped men. Horses screamed and fell, crushing their riders beneath them.
A lone sellsword, his courage overriding his sense, charged Gendry. A single, brutal swing of the hammer caved in his face, and he fell, forgotten, to the blood-soaked ground. But Gendry's eyes were not on him. He was searching for Vargo Hoat. He meant to smash the head of the Myrish snake.
Seeing the tide turn, Vargo Hoat tried to rally his men, but it was too late. The moment he turned, his formation collapsed, and the freelance knights broke and ran. They looked back, only to see that their reserve force, and their commander Qobo, had vanished. Only twenty Unsullied remained, their shortswords and spears still trying to break the unbreakable shield wall of the Free Army.
"Never mind the Unsullied fools," Gendry ordered. "Kill the Goat and his rotten soldiers!"
Vargo Hoat was easy to spot on his black-and-white zorse, his ridiculous goat-helmet a beacon in the chaos. He was tall and gaunt, like a rusty longsword, a greasy goatee clinging to his chin. Gendry charged, and the commander of the Brave Companions scrambled to block the blow. But Gendry paid his parry no mind. The first strike of his hammer sent Vargo reeling, his arm feeling as if it had been crushed by a boulder.
"Boy… boy!" Vargo shrieked, his lisp thick with terror. He began to hack wildly at Gendry's head and shoulders. Though he was a scoundrel, he had seen many battles, and his sword was quick and deadly. But against the sheer, overwhelming power of Gendry's assault, his skill was useless. He glanced around in a panic, saw his men being cut down by the frenzied Northmen, and his wild swings became even more desperate. His longsword glanced harmlessly off Gendry's black scale armor.
"Die!" Gendry roared, the flames of war burning bright between the Black Stag and the Goat. He found the blacksmith's rhythm, the pure, focused flow of power. Blow after heavy blow rained down, until Vargo's helmet was knocked from his head, revealing his ugly, blood-stained face. Gendry saw the terror in his eyes. Even a murderous demon was afraid to die.
"Forgive me, Black Goat God," Vargo whimpered.
Gendry's hammer crashed down on his forehead. The wound was deep to the bone. Blood, brain, and bone fragments erupted in a terrifying red mist. Vargo's body collapsed, dead before it hit the ground.
"The Goat is dead!" Gendry roared, his voice like iron, echoing across the battlefield. The remaining mercenaries scattered like headless flies.
"You killed the captain, you lunatic!" a voice shrieked. A man in a green and pink checkered costume, with chainmail underneath, rushed out from the chaos. It was Shagwell the Jester. He swung a three-headed flail, its chains wrapping around Gendry's warhammer. "Die, wolf pup!" the jester screamed, pulling a black dagger from his boot.
But Gendry simply let go of his hammer. He still had the arakh. With a sharp whistle, the curved blade sliced through the air, and the jester's head, which loved to tell such cruel jokes, tumbled to the ground.
"Kill all the Brave Companions!" the men of the Wolf Pack roared. The army of criminals and scum met its end on that bloody field. The knights of the Wolf Pack charged again and again, until every last one of them was dead.
The remaining freelance mercenaries threw down their weapons. "We surrender!" they cried, regretting the day they had ever accepted Magister Joey's generous offer.