From the heights above Myr, Gendry stood with the Red Viper, Ser Jorah Mormont, Anguy, and several other commanders, gazing down at the vast Dothraki host spreading across the plain like a living black tide.
The thunder of hooves rolled endlessly across the land, shaking the ground itself. Yet for all their ferocity, the Dothraki cavalry could not simply trample their way through what lay before them. Deep trenches and high earthen ramparts cut the plain apart, forming a brutal obstacle that even the fiercest riders could not ignore. Against such fortifications, speed and courage alone meant little.
Gendry wore black scale plate armor, dark and severe, with a quartered banner stitched into the cloak draped over his shoulders. Beside him, Ser Jorah stood in polished silver mail, his green cloak marked with the black bear of House Mormont. The Red Viper, by contrast, wore far lighter armor—scaled copper and leather, ideal for the swift, deadly style favored by the Dornish.
"This earthen fortress," Gendry said calmly, "I call it Myr Fortress."
"Myr Fortress," Oberyn Martell echoed with a faint smile. "Or perhaps it will soon be remembered as Horse-Slaughter Fortress."
Below them stretched a massive ring of packed loess walls encircling the approaches to Myr. Though crude compared to stone keeps, the structure was brutally effective. Catapults and scorpion crossbows were positioned along the ramparts, longbowmen standing ready between them. The moat was nothing less than a wide, deep trench, and heavy gates reinforced the entrances—every one of them firmly shut.
The height of the earthen walls nearly matched that of Myr's stone defenses behind them. Though the construction had been laborious, it was perfectly suited to its purpose. The Dothraki feared water and could not easily cross trenches. Forced into a frontal assault, their greatest strength—cavalry momentum—would be slowly bled away.
"Khal Drogo has brought everything he owns," Gendry said, raising his telescope.
Through the lens, the Dothraki Screamers appeared endless. Bare-chested warriors rode beneath fluttering braids, their bodies marked with paint and scars. Behind them, crude palaces of woven grass stood clustered together, housing the old, the weak, the women, and the children of the khalasar.
"These are no starving nomads," Gendry remarked. "The Dothraki Sea must be far richer than most believe."
Ser Jorah nodded grimly. "Khal Drogo seeks to become Khal of Khals. Avenging Khal Jhezkahn is not a matter of pride alone—it is survival. If he loses his fearsome reputation, the Free Cities will stop paying tribute."
"These horses," Anguy muttered, licking his lips. "They're enough to make a man drool."
"Still dreaming of fine mounts?" Jorah said with a snort.
"Archers love three things," Anguy replied cheerfully. "Good horses, good bows, and women. And you've blocked my path to wealth, my lord. If I were in King's Landing, I could win an archery contest and live like a king for a month."
"You're that confident?" Jorah asked, amused.
"If it were anyone else, I wouldn't dare boast," Anguy said. "But Ser Barristan is from the Marches, and I've watched him shoot. He's excellent—but I'm better."
The Red Viper glanced sideways at Anguy, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Gendry's forces were filled with unexpected talents.
"If you can shoot Drogo," Gendry said lightly, "his warhorse is yours."
Anguy clenched his fist. "Drogo himself might be difficult—but any other rider I drop, I'll be keeping their horse."
"Then I look forward to witnessing your divine archery."
Anguy lifted his longbow. "Westerosi bows are made for footmen. I'll need the right moment."
"I regret that I could only bring five hundred men," Oberyn said thoughtfully. "Three hundred cavalry and two hundred spearmen."
"Five hundred Dornish under your command are worth more than a thousand others," Gendry replied. "One great general is rarer than ten thousand soldiers."
"You flatter me," Oberyn said, watching the Dothraki formations shift below. "This will be a battle of forty thousand or more. One man alone cannot decide it."
The Dothraki deployed in their familiar fashion—light cavalry forming the core, scouts ranging ahead, flanks guarded by swift riders. Gendry's forces, by contrast, were meticulously arranged.
Ser Jorah and a portion of the Second Sons Legion manned the fortress defenses. The Free Legion under Gray Wolf and the Wolf Pack Legion under Steel Fist waited behind the ramparts as the primary striking force. Gendry's own cavalry and elite Kingsguard remained in reserve—his decisive blade.
Prince Oberyn would lead the Dornish light cavalry and the Norvoshi Holy Guard, forming the hammer.
"This battle will follow the Hammer and Anvil," Gendry said quietly. "Myr Fortress is the anvil."
"And I," Oberyn replied after a pause, "will be your hammer."
"Exactly as I intended," Gendry said. "You will command the elite cavalry—Dornish riders and Norvoshi axemen alike."
"As you command."
"You're lightly armored," Gendry noted. "Are you certain?"
Oberyn laughed softly. "Dorne fights like the wind. I intend to live long enough to see both the Mountain and Tywin Lannister die."
"Ser Jorah," Gendry said, turning. "The fortress is yours."
"I will hold it," Jorah replied solemnly.
"Sound the horn."
The mournful blast echoed across the plain.
Catapults creaked into motion.
Below, Khal Drogo raised his arakh, his long black hair flowing unbound—proof that he had never known defeat.
"Cowards!" Drogo roared. "Hiding behind dirt and walls!"
Slaves—sheep men—were driven forward first. Short, flat-faced farmers and herders screamed as whips lashed their backs. Hay bales were piled onto their shoulders, slowing them as they stumbled toward the trenches.
The first stones fell.
Boulders smashed bodies apart like overripe fruit. Blood, bone, and flesh scattered across the earth. Archers atop the ramparts loosed volleys—crossbows, horn-and-sinew bows, yew longbows, and the rare goldenheart bows Black Billy had gathered with great expense.
Jorah lowered his telescope. "Seven forgive us."
"War grants no forgiveness," Gendry replied.
Behind them, envoys from Pentos, Qohor, and Norvos watched in silence.
"Cruel," murmured Magister Oldero. "But effective."
"If a stone strikes Drogo," Gendry said evenly, "this war ends today."
"Khal," one Bloodrider growled below, "we're running out of sheep men."
Drogo's eyes burned.
Attacking at night would be worse. He knew it.
But pride would not allow retreat.
The hammer was ready.
The anvil already soaked in blood.
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