Under the Golden Company's banner, their knights stormed onto the battlefield at a gallop, slamming into the fight from behind and crashing straight into Bloodbeard's Company of the Cat and the Myrish-led Free Sellswords. Above all, the Golden Company's elephants proved the most terrifying weapon on the field.
Bloodbeard's and the Myrish attack collapsed at once. The Free Sellswords ran for their lives. The Long Lances and the Second Sons both surrendered to the Wolf Pack, then turned around and fell on the Company of the Cat and the Myrish.
On a low hill, the Golden Company's senior commanders stood together, watching the battle tilt and break. With the Golden Company's arrival, the Company of the Cat was as good as buried.
All around them, gilded skulls hung from the tips of spears. One skull was especially huge and misshapen, and beneath it hung another no bigger than a child's fist: the monstrous Maelys, and his unnamed brother. The rest were unremarkable at a glance—some had been caved in by hammer blows, their skulls split, while another showed a neat row of sharp teeth.
"They're winning beautifully. The Wolf Pack's elites are hard as nails, that real northern stink to them. And who would've thought they could train runaway slaves this well?" said Gorys Edoryen, the Golden Company's treasurer, a Volantene.
Lysono Maar, the Lysene spymaster, followed up. "Bloodbeard's rough and loves killing, but he's no idiot. That brat knows how to fight. His harassment, his encirclements, the way he uses cavalry—it's sharp work. Even if we hadn't stepped in, Bloodbeard wouldn't have escaped death. He's got what it takes to work with us."
"You're being far too reckless," sighed Homeless Harry, the Captain-general of the Golden Company. He was their captain, yet he feared battle. Homeless Harry didn't look like a warrior at all—fat-bodied, with a big round head, pale gray eyes, and thin hair combed over to hide his bald crown. "Wait for the Breaker? Wait for this brat's enemies, the slavers and Magisters, to come at him from every direction? What can a handful of slaves possibly do?"
"We don't have a choice, Harry," Franklyn Flowers said. "The butter merchants and cheese traders of the Free Cities will pay us, sure, but they won't lift a finger beyond that."
"If we help—if we help the Wolf Pack—we offend every major client we have," Harry snapped, frustration written all over his face. "And if the Breaker and the Wolf Pack's little game of freeing slaves fails, he'll be ruined before we ever reach Westeros."
"Stick to the plan," Harry said, clearing his throat.
"What plan?" someone shot back. "Yours, or the fat man's? We've had enough of wandering. Maelys Blackfyre could cross the sea with help from the other Ninepenny Kings, and so can we. The Wolf Pack can fight, and these slaves are an endless supply of soldiers. Once the Breaker takes the Disputed Lands and Myr, he can help us cross as well."
"Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne without dragons. So can we. Even if things go wrong and the people won't rise up, we can always fall back across the Narrow Sea—just like Bittersteel and the rest did back then."
Harry shook his head. "The risk in this—"
"Isn't that great," Franklyn Flowers cut in. "We haven't broken any contracts. We didn't sign a treaty with the Myrish. All we did was show the Breaker a bit of goodwill and smash Bloodbeard. Sellswords turning on each other is nothing new. This battle will end with the Myrish in a rout and the Company of the Cat wiped out. If the Breaker rides the momentum and crushes the Three Daughters, we cooperate with him openly."
"And if the Breaker's luck turns?" another voice pressed. "If the Three Daughters try to crush him, they'll need us more than ever. They'll have to flatter us, court us, pay us. Either way, we come out ahead. It's a win-win, and we still end up on top."
"Which means now we charge!" Franklyn Flowers threw back his head and laughed. "All of us together, just give the Breaker a little push. That lad's got nerve. He's a man."
Then Peake said, "I'd rather die in Westeros than rot in the Disputed Lands and leave my children to keep wandering."
Marq Mandrake snorted with laughter. "Me? I'd rather live well—fat fields, and a great big castle."
Franklyn Flowers slapped his sword hilt and bellowed, "First we help the Wolf Pack's king—and I'm going to kill a few rotten-apple Fossoway while I'm at it!"
The captain's face twisted as if someone had slapped him. "You've all gone mad."
One by one, the Golden Company officers raised their arms, then surged down the slope into the fray. The last to do it was their captain himself—Homeless Harry.
...
The defeat collapsed like a landslide. Bloodbeard watched the Wolf Pack Regiment advance in formation—heavy-armored infantry alongside the Free Company's light-armored troops. He saw the wandering sellswords throwing down their armor and weapons, fleeing into the surrounding woods.
Even Bloodbeard's elite vanguard was breaking. The shield wall formed by the Wolf Pack and the Free Company spread outward, and cheering soldiers raised the gray-white Wolf Pack banner as it rolled forward. Axes, halberds, greatswords, and longspear rose and fell, carving out smiles of death.
"Success!" Gendry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The Free Company's formation was, at best, a cheaper imitation of the Unsullied. The true Unsullied were too inhuman, too costly to sustain. That was why they needed the charges of the Wolf Pack cavalry and infantry to force the enemy into position.
Nearby, the longbowmen, under Fletcher's command, loosed volley after volley. Arrows fell like a driving rain.
"Long live the Wolf Pack!"
"Long live the Breaker!"
Steel Fist led the Wolf Pack infantry, while Greywolf commanded the Free Company. Their ranks surged forward like a flood. The Cats and Myr's sellswords who tried to resist were quickly swallowed by the tide of slaughter.
Rage burned in Bloodbeard's chest. I may have lost this battle, but I still have a chance. I'll return to Myr, raise more men, and take my revenge.
He wheeled his horse to retreat, but he was far too conspicuous to escape unnoticed. A loud, brutish giant of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick beard, fiery red whiskers, and a long braid—he stood out wherever he rode.
Bloodbeard and Gendry met beside a narrow river, flames of battle raging around them.
"You little brat! You've ruined me—now I'll ruin you!" Bloodbeard roared.
He drew his longsword, the blade flashing in savage arcs. His strikes were fast and vicious.
Gendry lifted his warhammer and moved to meet him head-on. He countered first, then feinted, before swinging a brutal, heavy blow from the opposite side. Bloodbeard slashed at his face, but Gendry slipped aside, nimble as a wildcat.
The warhammer smashed toward Bloodbeard's heart with crushing force. Bloodbeard tried to dodge, but the hammer slammed into his ribs, nearly knocking the breath from him. Forcing himself through the pain, he retaliated with a series of cuts. Gendry evaded the first, blocked the second, and caught the third thrust aimed at his midsection. Their movements were so fast that onlookers could barely follow the exchange.
Crack!
The warhammer howled through the air and struck Bloodbeard's other side. Ribs splintered, and a deep dent caved in his plate armor. Enduring the agony, Bloodbeard twisted violently and yanked another weapon from his saddle—a dark, patterned Valyria Arakh scimitar. He slashed it toward Gendry's face.
"Die!"
Gendry ducked the blow. Bloodbeard had already slowed. In the next instant, the warhammer smashed into Bloodbeard's temple. His helmet caved in with a heavy crunch. He toppled to the ground, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Gendry picked up Bloodbeard's Arakh scimitar. The blade was dark as black smoke. The Windblown were said to possess one as well—an unexpected prize.
Why hadn't Bloodbeard used the Arakh scimitar from the beginning? Perhaps he favored the longsword. The Dothraki were masters of the Arakh scimitar, after all. Or perhaps he had underestimated Gendry and kept it as a final trump card.
The cavalry charge continued to thunder past, hooves and blades and fury trampling over Bloodbeard's corpse.
"Fine steel!" Knights of the Golden Company rode up to Gendry, praising the weapon. They had witnessed the savage, lightning-fast duel. Bloodbeard was nothing more than a mangled heap on the ground.