Boulders split the dark sky as they hurtled toward Firegrass Manor, crashing into walls, towers, and battlements. The trebuchets of Myr thundered ceaselessly, their screaming projectiles crushing stone and soil alike.
Bloodbeard's mercenaries had built a strong siege formation around the three great Myrish war machines, launching endless day-and-night bombardments. Yet under the cover of darkness, Gendry's men struck back. The escaped slaves knew every creek and ridge of this terrain, ambushing the Myrish supply wagons, burning their tents, and vanishing into the night.
It was the Hour of the Wolf—the blackest stretch before dawn. At the east gate, Gendry assembled his force: four hundred Wolf Pack cavalry and two thousand infantry—four hundred of them seasoned Wolf Pack veterans under Steel-Fist, and sixteen hundred Free Army warriors under Grey Wolf's command.
Grey Wolf's vanguard of fifteen Unsullied stood at the front, bronze spears gleaming in the firelight. Each bore three long spears, a short sword, and a rounded shield. Their helmets' spikes glinted, casting sharp shadows across their smooth, grim faces.
The South Gate was strained under pressure, while the North Gate was nearly idle, but every road to the manor had armed watch. Archers hid in forests beyond the west, waiting for the horn that would signal them to strike.
Some would argue for defense, but the manor was no impenetrable fortress. The slaves and freedmen who followed Gendry had already decided—death in battle was better than the chains of failure.
"You have trained with me, with Steel-Fist, with the Unsullied," Gendry shouted from the walls. "You are the finest warriors alive!"
"Freedom! Freedom!" roared the Free Army in reply. They had no illusions—if they lost, they would burn or hang.
"The plan is simple," Gendry said. "We'll open the gates. I'll lead the cavalry charge. We strike for their trebuchets first—break through their mercenary rabble, destroy their siege engines, and set their camps aflame. When their ranks waver, flank them. Do not meet their long spears head-on."
"Three Daughters' machines won't fall easily," Longspear warned. "We dismantle or burn them if we can't seize them."
"Kill the mercenary captains and Myrish nobles," Steel-Fist added grimly. "And torch their command tents."
"No taking slaves," Grey Wolf reminded them coldly. "They are our brothers now."
"You're terrifying warriors," Gendry said, his voice steady but fierce. "Roar like wolves—let fear run through their hearts. When my cavalry breaks their line, follow through the gap. Slay the officers and burn their banners. If they surround you, fall back on the signal of the horn."
His veterans nodded. The Unsullied began to form up, shields locking, longspears angled downward like a glinting field of thorns. This disciplined wall would hold long enough for Gendry's knights to buy time.
"Listen for my horn," he repeated. "Cavalry strikes cavalry. Infantry meets infantry. Grey Wolf's spears will break their elite. Bloodbeard's best number barely a thousand."
Grey Wolf's voice was firm. "By your command, Commander. Charge at the first horn—retreat at the second. Firegrass will hold."
Gendry's mind recited his principle: avoid their strength, strike their weakness, and crush their spirit. The Dornish called it *blunting the spear*, and it fit him well.
Dawn's pale light crept across the plain. Gendry affixed his wolf-helm, his silver gorget gleaming above the black scale plates. His dark warhammer—cold, heavy, and familiar—rested in his hand as he lifted his shield.
He prayed—not to any single god, but to all of them. To the Warrior for strength, to the Crone for wisdom. It could not hurt.
And then Longspear cried out, laughter in his battle roar. "Maybe I'll die in a whore's arms or on cold earth—but not today!" The ranks answered in kind.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
When Gendry raised his warhammer aloft, the world erupted.
The cavalry's charge was a thunder of hooves and steel. The hammer's head gleamed briefly in the dawn as Gendry led the assault. They roared down the slope like a black tide.
Bloodbeard hesitated for a heartbeat, then his instincts as a lifelong butcher returned. "Brace! Spears forward!" he bellowed.
The Cat Company reformed, their pikes bristling in grim defense. The Second Sons took the left flank, the Spear Company the right—but even from the rear, Bloodbeard could smell weakness.
"Where are the Spear Company's riders?" he snapped.
"Under attack!" came the answer. "Our scouts missed an ambush—longbows firing from the hills!"
"Damn them all!" Bloodbeard raged. "Can they not see an ambush coming?"
He turned back toward the field. Already he could see Gendry's heavy cavalry closing the distance like a crashing wave. "Hold the center! If the line breaks, kill the wounded and stand on their corpses!"
But it was too late.
"Charge the Second Sons!" Gendry commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like lightning.
The Second Sons broke before the charge. Their reputation meant nothing now—their armor was rusted, their discipline gone. Gendry's knights plowed through them like iron through straw.
The Bastard of the Titan, captain of the Second Sons, blew his horn frantically to rally his men, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of battle. Gendry's warhammer fell like a comet, smashing chainmail and bone. Faces shattered, helmets split. Every blow left carnage in its wake.
A tide of steel swept through the Second Sons' flank. Screams mingled with the clash of iron and the pounding of hooves. Gendry fought at the front as the storm he was born to be—the stag's fury unleashed.
With dawn rising behind him and Firegrass burning at his back, the Storm's Bastard had brought the tempest to the slavers' camp. And he did not intend to let it end until the field was red with ash and blood.
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