Gendry dismounted, his warhammer still dripping with the blood of the slain. He wiped the gore from its head on the jester's colorful tunic. *A hammer is a fine weapon,* he thought. *As long as you have the strength, it is brutally effective. It would be even better if it were made of Valyrian steel.*
The black goat banner of the Brave Companions lay trampled in the mud, its criminal members scattered like broken dolls across the battlefield. The knights of the Wolf Pack rode back and forth, their warhorses trampling the wounded, their longspears and morning stars reaping a final, bloody harvest.
The war was over. Only the small, circular shield wall of the Unsullied remained, completely surrounded. Of the thirty who had charged, only fifteen were still standing. They were a small boat in a sea of enemies, yet they showed no intention of retreating.
Longspear and the other knights reined in their horses beside Gendry, their faces a mixture of awe and respect. A commander needed age and experience, but more than that, he needed strength. Northmen worshipped the strong. "We have won, Commander," Longspear said. "The Myrish commander and his rear guard have fled, but we have devoured the rest."
"Let them go," Gendry said, gesturing to the surrounded Unsullied.
"Commander," Steel-Fist hesitated, "the Unsullied fight to the death. They will not surrender. If we let them go, they will return to plague us."
"They are slaves, same as any other," Gendry replied. "Open a path for them. If they still choose to attack, then I will not be so merciful."
The shield wall parted, and a path opened. The fifteen remaining Unsullied stood bewildered, their shields and spears held at the ready. They were wounded, their faces streaked with sweat and blood, but their eyes were still full of a defiant resolve.
"You are free!" Gendry shouted to them. "Your commander has fled. The Brave Companions are no more. You can choose to fight us to the death, or you can choose to walk away."
The leader of the Unsullied, a man with two iron spikes on his helmet, froze. He looked at Gendry, then at the path that had been opened for them. He lowered his shield and spear, walked to Gendry, and knelt. "Freedom," he said, his voice rough with disuse. One by one, the others followed, until all fifteen were kneeling at Gendry's feet. It was the most beautiful word they had ever heard.
Gendry accepted their fealty, embracing their leader. "From now on," he said, "you will have your own names." He abolished the Unsullied practice of taking a new, degrading name each day and allowed them to elect their own officers. The leader chose the name "Grey Wolf." "My birth name was a curse," he explained. "But Grey Wolf is a good name, one I chose for myself on the day I was freed."
"Cut off the heads of the Brave Companions," Gendry commanded, "and impale them on spears." The Wolf Pack and their new Unsullied brothers set about their grim task. Vargo Hoat, the Crippler; Urswyck the Shriver, who abused children; Shagwell the Jester, who loved to kill—the heads of all the scum were mounted on poles, a feast for the crows and a warning to all who would oppose them.
The captured freelance mercenaries were brought before Gendry. "You have two choices," he told them. "Surrender to me and obey the Wolf Pack's laws, or discard your weapons and armor and pay a ransom for your freedom."
The Myrish encirclement had ended in a crushing defeat. The Wolf Pack and the Free Army now controlled a corner of the Disputed Lands, a territory centered around Firegrass Manor that grew larger with each passing day as more escaped slaves flocked to their banner.
Gendry stood on the coast of the Narrow Sea, looking out at the distant shores of Westeros. Grey Wolf stood beside him, a silent, loyal shadow.
"Your Highness," Qyburn said, approaching them, "I have two pieces of news."
"I hope it is pleasant news," Gendry replied.
"The first is an offer of collaboration. The commander of the Company of the Cat wishes to join us in raiding Myr."
"Bloodbeard?" Gendry snorted. "His reputation is as foul as the Brave Companions. We do not accept trash in our army." Bloodbeard was a notoriously cruel and greedy brute. To associate with such a man would tarnish the image of a liberator that Gendry was carefully cultivating. "Simply refusing him may anger the fool. Let us instead contact the Windblown. They have a grudge against the Company of the Cat."
"There is also a very distinguished guest you may need to meet in person," Qyburn said, a peculiar expression on his face.
"Who?"
"The Red Viper," the maester replied. "Prince Oberyn of Dorne."
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