Gendry swung down from his horse and picked up his spiked warhammer, still slick with blood.
"The spiked warhammer never lets you down. As long as you've got the strength for it, a blunt weapon is terrifying on a battlefield. If I had one made of Valyrian steel, even better." He wiped the warhammer clean on the Jester's garish robe. Where he stood, there were no living men left, only bodies.
The Black Goat banner had been hacked into scraps. Brave Companions lay everywhere. Butchers, criminals, scum—now nothing more than corpses on a red-soaked field. The Wolf Pack's knights rode back and forth, hooves trampling the dead as longspears and meteor hammers whistled through the air, finishing off the Brave Companions and a few reckless free knights who had blundered into the slaughter.
The fighting was nearly done. Only the spear-and-shield wall continued to press in, closing slowly and steadily until the Unsullied were sealed inside. Twenty had come. Now only fifteen remained. They were like a small boat in a sea of war, and still they showed no sign of turning away.
Longspear led the Wolf Pack knights to Gendry's side. They reined in and looked to their commander. A commander might have seniority, but more than that, he needed strength. Northerners worshiped strength.
"We won, Lord Commander," Longspear reported. One of the spikes on his helm had been knocked loose, but he was otherwise unharmed. "The Myrish commander fled early with part of the rear guard. We swallowed the rest."
The knights watched the trapped Unsullied, eager to finish the job.
Steel Fist was already sweeping the battlefield with the infantry and the Free Company, collecting prisoners and forcing the surrendered free sellswords to disarm. Anything worth taking was stripped from the Brave Companions—coin, armor, weapons. Nothing went to waste.
Thud. Thud.
Now only a circular shield wall remained, fully enclosing the Unsullied. It waited on a single command. At the Lord Commander's order, they would be killed to the last man.
"Let them go," Gendry said.
"Lord Commander… the Unsullied fight to the death. They never surrender." Steel Fist hesitated. "If we let them walk, they'll be trouble later."
"Let them go. They're slaves forced into this." Gendry's voice was calm. "We'll open a gap. If they still choose to attack, I won't hold back."
"Yes!"
The shield wall slowly parted. The Free Company soldiers surrounding the Unsullied stepped aside and opened a path. The remaining fifteen stood there, bewildered, gripping black shields and longspears. Their bodies were marked with countless blows—blood, grime, sweat, and helplessness. But the Unsullied endured pain well. None of the wounds were fatal.
"Freedom! You're free as well!" Gendry called to them. "Myr's commander has fled. The Brave Companions are finished. You can choose to fight us to the death, or you can go back to Myr."
"Freedom." "Freedom."
The Unsullied leader, the one with two spikes on his helm, froze for a heartbeat, then stepped forward with his black shield and longspear. He set them down, then sank to one knee before Gendry.
The first Unsullied cried it out, and the rest followed, voices rising one after another as they knelt. Freedom was the most perfect, most beautiful word they had ever heard.
Gendry accepted their allegiance and embraced the leader.
"Comrades. From today on, you'll have names of your own." He had them choose officers from among themselves, and he abolished the rule that forced them to use a different name at random each day.
"Cut off the Brave Companions' heads and put them on longspears," Gendry gave his second order. The Brave Companions had been wiped out, but scum like that still deserved punishment.
The Wolf Pack knights rose and went to work, and the newly joined Unsullied joined them. They found the dead a new "home." Vargo Hoat, who loved chopping off arms. Septon Utt, who delighted in tormenting children. The murderous Jester, and others like him. Their heads were set atop long poles to face the screaming wind, and perhaps, in time, the attention of crows.
The free sellswords surrendered in droves. Gendry's gaze swept over the field. The defeated men did not dare meet his eyes.
"You have choices," Gendry told them. "You can surrender to me, but you'll obey the Wolf Pack's discipline. Or you can leave—without your armor and weapons, and with your ransom paid."
The sellswords stood where they were, weighing their options. Whatever they chose, none of them dared defy Gendry now.
Victory was sweet, Gendry thought, staring at the wreckage of the battlefield. But it could have been cleaner.
If I'd had more longbowmen, more knights, a stronger strike force… I could've wiped out the entire Myrish army.
...
The Myrish suppression campaign ended in crushing defeat. The richly paid Brave Companions had walked straight into an ambush and were wiped out to the last man. Only their commander managed to flee back to Myr with a handful of broken survivors.
Panic spread through the city. The Magisters began discussing a far larger offensive.
Now the Wolf Pack and the Free Company held a corner of the Disputed Lands. With the Fire Herb plantation at its heart, the Wolf Pack controlled a considerable stretch of land and coastline. Beyond the manor slaves, many runaways who had once fled deep into the Disputed Lands were now making their way to join them.
Gendry stood on the shores of the Narrow Sea. Far across the water lay Westeros—his homeland. Fate had cast him here, whether he had wanted it or not.
Greywolf stood at his side, guarding him. Greywolf was the leader of the surviving Unsullied. He once explained how he chose his name.
"My birth name was cursed, and so I was sold into slavery. But 'Greywolf' was the name I chose on the day the Breaker freed me."
"Prince, there are two pieces of news that may interest you," the aging Maester Qyburn said as he approached.
"Let's hope they're good."
"The first concerns cooperation. The commander of the Company of the Cat wishes to ally with us and attack Myr together—plunder the city."
"Bloodbeard?" Gendry's expression cooled at once. "We don't take in trash. His reputation stinks, and bandit sellswords are hard to keep in line."
Bandit companies only cared about burning and looting. That was not Gendry's aim. He wanted to hold this land, not strip it bare and leave ashes behind. Besides, he had built his name as a liberator of slaves. With so many runaways seeking refuge under his banner, there was no need to stain his cause by standing alongside a thug like Bloodbeard.
Bloodbeard was a loud, savage brute—huge in stature, with a thick beard, fiery red whiskers, and a long braid. His shoulders were broad, his temper violent. He craved glory, gold, and women, and killing came easily to him.
"But rejecting him outright might provoke the fool," Gendry added after a moment. "Contact the Windblown. They have a feud with him already."
"There is another matter," Qyburn said, his expression turning strange. "A most distinguished guest has arrived. You may wish to receive him personally."
"Who?" Gendry asked.
"The Red Viper. Prince Oberyn of Dorne."