Gendry's wedge formation cut through the enemy lines like a sharpened spearhead, driving straight into their heart. He struck down Bloodbeard with unyielding force. The Knights of the Second Sons, Spear Company, and Golden Company surged forward to join the fray, forming an armored steel fist that unleashed a tempest of mounted warriors.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
"Long live the Free Army!"
"Break the chains! End these Myr slavers for good!"
The Knights thundered across to the far side, and Gendry swiftly reformed his ranks, rallying them for a second devastating charge. They swept once more from the front of the manor all the way to its rear, sealing the battle's outcome with relentless momentum.
"Steel Fist," "Longspear," and "Grey Wolf" directed the infantry of the Wolf Pack and Free Army to chase down the scattering foes, locking in a total triumph that echoed across the field.
Gendry and the officers of the Golden Company rode slowly over the blood-soaked battlefield. Bloodbeard's fall hastened the Cat's Company's downfall, causing this vast mercenary outfit—second in might only to the Golden Company itself—to shatter into fragments.
In the wake of this clash, the citizens of Myr quaked with dread, and the Disputed Lands now brimmed with far fewer threats. The Wolf Pack and Free Army stood poised to purge the entire region, claiming it step by step.
"An exiled force, but one drilled with impressive discipline!" Gendry's eyes scanned the ranks of high officers and rank-and-file soldiers from the Golden Company. Their wealth gleamed evident, matched by formations held in ironclad order.
The Golden Company's mercenaries flaunted their riches openly, exuding the flash of sudden fortune much like any other band: gem-encrusted blades, armor etched with intricate designs, luxurious silk garments, and thick gold collars around their necks. Most striking were the invaluable golden armbands adorning every arm, each one valued high enough to ransom a lord. A single band marked a full year of loyal service within their ranks.
"Congratulations on your resounding victory, Commander-in-Chief!" Homeless Harry declared with genuine admiration. He had yielded to his officers' insistent urging, deciding to embrace the moment fully.
"I owe you all my thanks too—if you'd lingered even a breath longer, the Golden Company might have ridden straight to my Wolf's Den for a victory feast of their own!" Gendry replied coolly, flanked by Longspear, Grey Wolf, and the rest. These battle-hardened fighters bore the fresh stains of combat, their presence radiating the raw intensity of warriors fresh from the kill.
Gendry saw through the Golden Company's tactics clearly: they had lingered on the sidelines, gauging the chaos until the fight tipped beyond saving for the Cat's Company and Myr's allies. Only then did they charge in, polishing an already won crown rather than kindling a desperate fire.
"You jest, but I see your point!" Homeless Harry gathered his nerve and shot back. Once a mere keeper of coffers, not a frontline fighter, he now stood before Gendry feeling exposed, like a candle flickering against a gleaming blade—dim and outmatched.
"Please forgive us—the Golden Company fields ten thousand seasoned warriors. We can't leap into every skirmish without weighing the risks," the Volantene treasurer, Gorys Edoryn, offered with a bow of his head.
"We come only to extend a token of goodwill and alliance to the commander. The Golden Company seeks no barrier to your ambitions," added the Lysene intelligence officer, Ronsono Marr, his voice smooth and inviting.
"And what of the Golden Company in all this?"
"True warriors honor their equals. We in the Golden Company revere a bold leader like you, Commander-in-Chief. We back your claim to the throne—and we ask for your aid in turn. Westeros calls to us as our true home."
"Have you truly weighed this path, my friends? You're painting too rosy a picture! The king boasts allies like Lord Jon, Barristan, and the Kingslayer at his side, with the Vale, the North, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands rallying behind him, plus the endless coffers of The Reach and Casterly Rock." Gendry chuckled, underscoring the towering obstacles the Golden Company faced.
Lyswell Peake thrust his fist skyward. "Exiled for a century though we are, bonds linger in The Reach for us. That land's power isn't the monolith Mace Tyrell believes. Even in Dorne, old ties await our call."
"We've endured this wait for ages—what's a bit longer? The queen's arrogance swells with each passing year; how much time does frail Old Arryn have left? And don't overlook Lord Renly, harboring dreams much like our own. Our moment will dawn, Commander-in-Chief!" The Golden Company's intelligence officer laid out the landscape for Gendry with keen insight. Though rooted in the Disputed Lands, they kept a vigilant ear to whispers from their distant homeland beyond the Narrow Sea.
"In my view, your dream of returning home floats like mist—fragile and fleeting! A century past, Daemon Blackfyre the 'Warrior' and Aegor Rivers 'Cold Iron' couldn't seize it, and the odds look even steeper today!" Gendry countered sharply, dismantling their hopes without mercy.
"Back then, King Daeron leaned on Lord Bloodraven's cunning, with sons like Baelor Breakspear and Maekar Targaryen standing firm; their realm held as one. But now the Iron Throne churns with hidden rifts—we're not without our openings," Franklin Flowers pressed, his tone steady and persuasive.
"Striking back at Westeros demands a saga of epic trials and twists. We might linger another year, five, or a full decade more—who can say? Yet we reach for your bond now, so that when the Golden Company sails across the Narrow Sea, the Wolf Pack might lend us a steady hand," Homeless Harry explained. He exhaled deeply, relieved; no crossing loomed immediate, leaving plenty of space to build trust down the line.
"So long as the Golden Company steps aside while I claim the Disputed Lands, I'd gladly offer whatever aid fits," Gendry responded, keeping his words open-ended. After all, such pacts bound no one tightly. As long as the Golden Company refrained from blocking the Wolf Pack's advances, a shared vow held appeal for both.
"That's a prospect we welcome warmly!" The rising strength of the Wolf Pack harbored no grudge against the Golden Company; quite the reverse, they offered bolstering aid and camaraderie. Even a hint of partnership rang as welcome tidings for the Golden Company.
Once the Golden Company departed, the Spear Company, under its commander's lead, yielded to Gendry outright. He welcomed this mounted troop of eight hundred riders without hesitation, weaving them seamlessly into his growing forces.
Soon after, Brown Ben arrived at the head of the Second Sons' battered survivors. With Mero slain, the company's ranks had chosen Brown Ben as their fresh leader.
"The Second Sons stand ready to swear fealty to you, Commander-in-Chief! I am Ben Plumm, newly chosen to command the Second Sons." Brown Ben laid his longsword at Gendry's feet, then dropped to one knee in full submission.
"You cut a striking figure indeed, Commander Ben." Gendry studied him closely. Brown Ben carried the look of an odd mongrel blend, his face wide and flat, skin a deep tan, nose crooked from old breaks, hair a thick mop of gray, and eyes dark and slanted like almonds—a gift from his Dothraki lineage—with fine lines etching the corners.
"My veins run with Braavosi, Summer Isles, Ibbenese, Qohorik, Dothraki, and Dornish blood. Heck, I've even got a splash of Targaryen in there," Brown Ben boasted, puffing up a touch.
"See our Commander Ben—doesn't he just radiate warmth?" Gendry remarked to Longspear, a sly edge to his voice.
Brown Ben kept grinning wide, his demeanor all easy charm and approachability.
"I've heard your tales, Brown Ben. Our Commander Ben Plumm appears so affable, that perpetual smile drawing folks in like a trusted kin. He comes off as the steadfast uncle every band adores—ever mild, brimming with captivating yarns and the sage advice of seasons past. But it's a clever mask. That grin never lights his gaze; those eyes veil a sharper hunger. This one's ever alert, prowling for gain." Gendry's assessment sliced clean, leaving Brown Ben visibly shaken.
Brown Ben caught "Longspear," "Grey Wolf," and the others around Gendry shifting, muscles coiling like springs. Longspear's fingers clenched tighter around his longspear. The warriors' stares burned cold and unyielding; these weren't your run-of-the-mill sellswords anymore, but a pack honed fierce as wolves and unbreaking as forged steel. A single lunge, and Brown Ben's end would come swift.
"Commander-in-Chief, hold back—you've got my surrender already!" Brown Ben's complexion drained to ash; a routed force couldn't muster defiance, and sly wits crumbled before war's brutal edge.
"Yet you're not without value; the Second Sons excel at one thing—slipping away alive! How many remain under your banner?" Gendry inquired.
"More than four hundred strong!" Brown Ben answered quickly.
"Everyone knows the Second Sons' word twists like smoke, and Myr's folk now huddle in fear, dreading the Wolf Pack Company's next strike above all."
"What's your angle here?" Brown Ben met Gendry's eyes, probing.
"To be plain, I hold little faith in you, Brown Ben. The Second Sons bear a stained name, woven with too many deceits. I could scatter your lot to the winds right now, but keeping you intact might serve a sharper purpose. Head back to Myr—you grasp what I expect."
"I do, Commander-in-Chief!" Brown Ben dipped his head. Gendry had mapped their role already: slip into Myr's service as mercenaries once more—or better yet, as the Wolf Pack's hidden eyes and ears!
"You've stumbled into error once before. I trust the Second Sons won't repeat it? Fail again, and when I storm Myr's gates, the Wolf Pack's wrath will fall without quarter!"
"Count on it, Commander-in-Chief. Old hands in this trade know caution; the bold fade fast, but none endure by blending both. This round, I'll stand firm with the winners." Brown Ben reflected, his earlier grin returning faintly.