Blazing battle erupted around Gendry as he swung his spiked warhammer and charged straight into the ranks of the Second Sons.
Gendry was the very image of a towering, powerful knight, and the Wolf Pack knights behind him were cut from the same cloth, just as people imagined warriors of the North to be. Only he was fiercer, stronger. He was a Stormborn, and he had come to deliver the storm's greeting.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
The Company of the Cat had never expected the Wolf Pack to launch such a savage frontal assault at dawn. After a brief moment of panic, their archers loosed a tight, forceful volley—but it failed to slow the Wolf Pack's charge. Bloodbeard was ruthless, and seasoned by countless battles.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
Beneath the Wolf Pack banner, their knights roared in unison. Clad in black or gray-white plate and scale armor—equipment that might once have been reserved for House Stark of the North—the Wolf Pack had forged its own ironclad fist in the wealthy Disputed Lands.
Amid the desolate blare of war horns, Gendry led the wedge formation like the tip of a spear, unstoppable as it cleaved clean through the Second Sons' lines.
Bang!
Gendry's warhammer fell with crushing force, whether in defense or attack. Along his path, the hammer brought nothing but death. Second Sons knights who tried to bar his way had their skulls smashed apart or their chests caved in, ribs shattered, hearts pulped.
He broke every knight who dared stand against him. He sought only the kill. Skull, heart, throat, spine—each strike landed with flawless precision, as if he had practiced it a thousand times over. Like forging steel. Only men were not iron. They could not endure the blow.
The horse beneath him was a famed Dornish steed. The man atop it was a Storm warrior. Sweeping blows, crushing strikes, blocks, parries, counterattacks—every move from the Stag was simple and direct, yet carried the essence of battle. Faster. Higher. Stronger. More forceful. That was all it took.
In any discipline, talent mattered. Training mattered too. With steady practice, one could become first-rate. But to rise beyond that required something more. In battle, Gendry possessed that rare, exceptional gift. Paired with relentless training, he had the makings of a warrior who could shine above all others.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
The Wolf Pack knights fought with mounting ferocity as the Second Sons collapsed into chaos. Their equipment was poor, nothing remarkable to give them an edge.
At the sight of the savage Wolf Pack knights, the Second Sons began to scatter. They might falter in a head-on fight, but when it came to running for their lives, they were remarkably skilled.
"Form up! Form a line!" Mero, commander of the Second Sons, shouted hoarsely, even as he ordered his men to seek the protection of the Company of the Cat.
"Useless! A pack of useless trash!"
The Broken Sword banner whipped wildly in the wind as a Second Sons rider fled in embarrassment, dragging it with him. Their line wavered on the brink of collapse. From Fire Herb Manor, Wolf Pack infantry advanced in tight formation, shields raised, while Free Company soldiers followed behind, ranks steadily taking shape.
Bloodbeard finally made up his mind. He could not simply watch the Second Sons be wiped out—it would shake the army's morale. Unfortunately, the Long Lances could not be deployed.
"Go reinforce the Second Sons. I want them alive!" Bloodbeard sent out one hundred and fifty riders, along with several hundred free sellswords, to support them.
"The rest of the cavalry and infantry, with me—press forward! Once the Unsullied form their tortoise-shell shield wall, we're finished. Push up and smash their front! Those few hundred horsemen—win or lose against the Second Sons—they won't be coming back whole!"
Mero, The Titan's Bastard, watched as his men fled or broke apart. An army of tricksters, failures, and liars—yet they were still his only hope.
He shouted himself hoarse, begging for aid.
Clad in chainmail, The Titan's Bastard could not help but draw attention. From Braavos, tall of stature, pale green eyes gleaming beneath a thick, waist-length red-gold beard.
Longspears thundered forward, a whirling storm of death, their tips driving straight toward the commander of the Second Sons.
"Damn it! Where's the Company of the Cat? Bloodbeard, you bastard!"
Mero roared in fury as he drew his steel sword. He braced his shield, trying to fend off the dense rain of Longspears. He blocked left and right, but one spear still slipped through and stabbed into his right armpit. Blood poured out at once.
"Bastard!"
The Titan's Bastard felt a surge of pain, his movements slowing. Yet the whistling Longspears kept coming.
He lifted his shield again, but the spearhead shifted with uncanny agility and tore through the flesh at his throat. Panic seized The Titan's Bastard. He turned, intent on fleeing toward the Company of the Cat in the center.
A black stallion suddenly cut off his path.
Beneath a crude iron mask, the Head Wolf brought his spiked warhammer crashing down with unstoppable force.
Wounded, Mero forced himself to block the first strike. The sheer weight drove the sword from his hand and sent it clattering to the ground. Gendry's next blows fell even heavier than the first. The warhammer smashed open Mero's helmet and crushed his skull. Blood, brain, and shards of bone sprayed into the air as Mero toppled like a felled hill.
"The Titan's Bastard is dead!"
"The Titan's Bastard is dead!"
Knights of the Company of the Cat and the Free Knights rushing to reinforce them saw the grisly sight and dared not step forward. They could only gather the scattered survivors. Just as the Second Sons managed to form a new defensive line, the Wolf Pack suddenly wheeled their horses and charged toward the Three Daughters of Myr.
The Wolf Pack's heavily armored knights swept forward like a gale, smashing through the Second Sons, Free Sellswords, and slave soldiers guarding the catapults of the Three Daughters.
"We surrender! We surrender!"
The slave soldiers shouted as they turned their weapons on the Second Sons and Free Sellswords.
The Wolf Pack thundered through like a storm. They dragged down the "Wolfslayer" with chains, while the slave soldiers eagerly toppled the "Glory of Myr" and the "Lady of Myr."
The Free Sellswords scattered in all directions. The Second Sons, led by one of their own, surrendered to Gendry alongside the fleeing slaves.
The man at their head had a broad face, brown skin, a broken nose, thick gray hair, and large black almond-shaped eyes inherited from his Dothraki mother, faint lines creasing their corners.
"We surrender to the Great Breaker, the Head Wolf, supreme commander of the Wolf Pack and the Free Company!"
"Who are you?" Gendry asked.
"I am Ben Plumm, an unworthy member of the Second Sons. My comrades trust me enough to submit to the Wolf King on their behalf."
"Good. Mero is dead. Gather your banners and follow me to attack the Company of the Cat. You may be good at running for your lives, but now I want you charging."
Gendry pointed his warhammer at Brown Ben.
"Rest assured, Wolf King. The Second Sons always stand with the victor," Brown Ben replied.
They spurred their horses and galloped toward the rear of the Company of the Cat and the Free Sellswords. The flames of war burned ever fiercer.
A bleak horn call echoed across the field, and the warriors' shouts rolled like thunder. To the west, longbowmen and shieldmen loosed a storm of arrows under the Fletcher's command. To the east, the shield wall had fully formed, and the Longspears pressed forward relentlessly toward Bloodbeard.
The fall of the Three Daughters' catapults dealt a fatal blow to the morale of the Myrish army. Many Free Sellswords broke free from their Myrish overseers and fled in all directions.
"Useless! Useless!"
Bloodbeard's eyes burned red with rage.
"The catapults are gone just like that? Are the Second Sons, those Free Sellswords, and the slave soldiers all worthless?"
He could feel the formation crumbling. It was no longer the Wolf Pack on the brink of destruction—it was the Company of the Cat.
"The Second Sons have turned! They've joined the Wolf Pack and the slave soldiers to cut off our retreat!"
"Captain, the Long Lances! The Long Lances are attacking us as well!"
Bloodbeard's vision swam. He had known these men were unreliable. He should have waited—waited for the stronger Windblown or the Golden Company.
"Captain, we have to retreat!"
"Morale is breaking! If we stay, we all die here!"
"Retreat!"
Bloodbeard ground his teeth. Better to flee than be annihilated.
"Bad news! Scouts to the rear spotted banners—it's the Golden Company! They've brought elephants!"
"What?!"
Bloodbeard whipped around, dread tightening his chest.
Skull-emblazoned banners snapped in the wind, and massive elephants lumbered into view.
The Golden Company had rejected the Myrish attack—and thrown in their lot with the Wolf Pack.
It was over. All of it.
Bloodbeard's body trembled.