"Coward! Milk Man hiding inside an iron box, coward!" Khal Zekko roared, his black eyes blazing with fury. The Dothraki despised those who lived in stone houses and wrapped themselves in armor.
Khal Zekko swung his silver Arakh, the bells in his thick black braid clattering sharply. The weapon was half sword, half sickle, long and razor-edged.
"Die!"
He came at Gendry like a raging storm, blade flashing as curses spilled from his mouth.
The Arakh carved a sweeping arc through the air, but it failed to bite into Gendry's waist. Gendry's warhammer and armor held fast, turning aside the Khal's assault.
The Wolf Pack's chieftain spun his lance in tight circles, while the Long Lances Company's captain, Gylo Rhegan, fought with his longsword. Gendry's silent companions moved to engage Khal Zekko's two Bloodriders—men bound to him like brothers, just as fierce and deadly.
Greywolf and Steel Fist left part of their forces to clear the field. The remaining infantry advanced in unison, pressing forward alongside the cavalry of the Wolf Pack, the Free Company, and the Long Lances, cutting down the Dothraki as they went.
Gendry wore black scale plate armor of the finest make: helmet, gorget, layered plates from neck to thigh. The knights of the Wolf Pack were equipped the same. Heavy cavalry was expensive and slower to maneuver, but against Dothraki warriors who relied on reckless charges, it was more than enough.
The Dothraki Horselords favored headlong assaults, with little taste for subtle tactics. Now the heavy knights' short, brutal charges were proving their worth. This was not the Dothraki Sea. This was Myr.
Clad in black scale plate and wielding his warhammer, Gendry defended with steady composure. The Arakh was made for killing—on horseback it could open deep, vicious wounds with ease. But his armor blunted much of its edge.
"Only cowards hide in iron!" Khal Zekko shouted, his Arakh falling like a torrent of rain, dazzling and shrieking through the air.
Dothraki combat allowed no armor—only blood. Screamer warriors hacked at one another, Arakhs splitting spines and ripping open bellies. Blood, death, severed limbs, and the dying's last howls—that was the Dothraki way of war.
Khal Zekko was no fool. Though he wore no armor himself, he aimed carefully for the joints, the weak seams where plates met. Armpits, elbows, knees, the bends beneath the arms—those were the usual vulnerabilities of heavy plate. But Gendry's black scale plate was crafted to near perfection; even those points were well guarded.
Gendry's tight defense left most of Khal Zekko's strikes cutting empty air. When the blade did connect, it skidded uselessly across black scales.
Meanwhile, Gendry's warhammer lashed out in measured counters. More than once it struck bone and muscle, driving pain through Khal Zekko and making his blood surge hot in his ears.
Steel rang against steel without pause. The heat of battle seemed to swallow them both.
Strength met strength. Speed met speed. Gendry did not fear Khal Zekko, especially not with armor shielding him. Before long he had gauged the Khal's rhythm and the limits of his power.
Khal Zekko had risen above six or seven thousand screamer warriors to claim his place. He was no common foe. But Gendry intended to overpower him.
"This coward will be the one to kill you, Khal," Gendry said evenly, holding his ground. He felt as if strength flowed through him without end. A warrior should stand firm as stone and strike like a storm. He caught each slash with his warhammer.
Khal Zekko was past forty. Experience could not fully make up for fading strength. As the fight wore on, Gendry saw something new in the Khal's eyes—unease. The khals rarely fought armored knights head-on; they were not accustomed to this kind of battle.
"There's no retreat now!"
The tide was turning against them, and the Khal felt it. But Dothraki screamers despised failure. That was why, beneath the walls of Qohor, the fallen khal had chosen to fight the Unsullied to the bitter end.
With every exchange, Khal Zekko felt a growing dread. The warhammer carried the weight of a thousand pounds. After taking several solid blows, his muscles throbbed with pain, while his opponent only seemed to grow stronger. Save for Khal Drogo, he had always believed himself unmatched. Now his pride demanded its price.
"Take off your armor! Fight me as a man!" Khal Zekko roared.
Gendry regarded him coldly, his men still at his back.
"My advantages," he said calmly. "Strength. And armor."
His warhammer crashed against the Khal's curved blade again. This time his counterstrike came harder, heavier.
Gendry felt like a blade fresh from the forge—newly tempered, burning bright, and only growing sharper.
"Clang! Clang!"
Khal Zekko hurled himself forward in a fury of blows, yet he could not break through Gendry's defense. When the Arakh struck the black armor in safer places, Gendry simply ignored it.
Instead, Gendry's warhammer shrieked through the air. The heavy, spiked head smashed into the Khal's chest, tearing open a bloody wound. It did not strike his heart, but bone cracked beneath the impact.
Khal Zekko seemed to slip into madness, disregarding his injury and swinging through the pain. Yet as the frenzy wore on, his attacks began to slow.
"Die!"
He slashed again with his Arakh, but the blade only rang off Gendry's vambrace.
Clang!
Gendry caught the flash of an opening. A heartbeat was all he needed. His first hammer blow crashed into Khal Zekko's shoulder, crushing muscle and bone alike. The Khal's face flushed dark red, twisted with rage and pain.
His sword hand faltered.
"And a second!"
The warhammer came around in a brutal arc and slammed into Khal Zekko's skull. The impact burst his head like a smashed melon, tearing open a ghastly hole.
Brain, blood, and splintered bone sprayed outward. Khal Zekko swayed where he stood, then toppled to the ground, twitching like a slaughtered eel.
"Khal is dead!"
"Khal is dead!"
Khal Zekko's Bloodriders' eyes burned red with fury as they lunged to avenge him. Their desperation, however, gave Longspear and Gylo Rhegan their chance.
Gylo caught a Bloodrider's blade and cut him down with a single stroke. At the same time, Longspear's thrown javelin struck true, killing the other Bloodrider who had charged at Gendry for vengeance.
Longspear dismounted, sliced off Khal Zekko's head, and presented it to Gendry. The severed head was tied behind Gendry's horse.
Khal Zekko's death set off a chain reaction across the field. The Dothraki warriors, already locked in desperate struggle, could hold no longer. What had begun as a wavering line turned into full collapse. Morale broke all at once, sliding from strain into rout.
The Bloodriders would choose to live and die with their Khal, but the khalasar's "Ko," the lesser horselords who led the smaller bands within it, had no such resolve. They gathered what they could and fled with their people.
War drums thundered again. Horns blared, their notes almost bright with triumph.
Cheers rose from the walls of Myr. One Khal had fallen, and another king had risen. The people of Myr rejoiced as the Dothraki suffered the same fate they once had beneath the walls of Qohor.
Gendry spurred his horse forward, driving the line ahead in pursuit.
At that moment, the two ambush forces he had prepared struck the fleeing Dothraki.
The Red Viper's contingent burst from concealment first. He rode a coal-black stallion with a mane and tail the color of flame. His light armor was layered with overlapping copper plates that flashed like a thousand suns as he charged.
The Red Viper lifted his black Longspear. A round shield hung behind him, emblazoned with House Martell's sun-pierced-spear sigil.
Dorne's light cavalry followed, their armor lighter than heavy knights' but far superior to that of the Dothraki. They were well practiced in cutting down scattered screamers, a style of fighting the Dornish knew well—longbows and javelins striking from range before closing in.
"Kill! Kill the Dothraki!"
Brown Ben led the knights of the Second Sons from farther out, intercepting and slaughtering stray bands of Dothraki warriors. They did not seek out the strongest fighters. Instead, they rode hard to harry the weaker remnants of the khalasar, the women and children left behind.
With the Khal's death, a khalasar fell apart.
"Long live Myr!"
"Long live the Lord Commander Gendry!"
"Long live the Lord Commander!"
The soldiers' cheers rang out, fierce and jubilant. Honor won in war was a treasure beyond price.