Little Pigeon Paezhar tripped over the tassels of his bird armor and cried, "I surrender! I have ransom, my lord."
Gendry had no interest in wasting more words on Little Pigeon. His warhammer whistled through the air. A dull crack burst into a spray of blood, staining the knights' bright armor red.
Then came the slingers of Tolos and the crossbowmen of Elyria. They dropped their weapons and knelt with remarkable smoothness, escaping disaster.
"Bwoooom! Bwoooom! Bwoooom!"
Malaquo's main camp moved as well. His soldiers crossed the mud, trying to meet Gendry's army head-on. This time, strangely, the longbowmen did not draw. They merely watched as the Volantene reinforcements charged toward them.
"Long live the Storm!"
The cavalry moved with Gendry, and the Gold Cloaks seemed to become a mass of flowing flame.
Golden fire burned as though it would set the whole plain ablaze. Rage swept across the field.
Gendry shouted and charged. The knights were razors reaping wheat, and Gendry was the sharpest blade among them.
"The Stormcrows take flight!" the Stormcrows cheered at first.
"We surrender! We surrender!" But once the sluggish Stormcrows came to their senses, they immediately tried to wave their banners in surrender. Their surrender, however, could not keep up with the speed of the enemy's slaughter. The golden flash advanced too quickly.
"Drop your weapons. Take off your armor. Now!" Gendry swept past the Stormcrows' ranks and saw the most flamboyant man among them, Daario. Daario was unwilling. He knew the destruction of the city-states had come at the hands of the Breaker.
"As you command! We surrender." The commander of the Stormcrows had not even had time to act, and his words came out in a stammer. The three commanders seemed to have three different opinions: fight, surrender, or something else. Three commanders, like three separate machines.
"Too slow! I said now."
Gendry's spiked warhammer rose and fell. The hesitant Daario hurriedly raised his weapons to resist.
The Tyroshi wore a Dothraki arakh at his left side and a Myrish rapier at his right. Their hilts were a matching pair of naked golden women.
Daario was far too easy to recognize. His beard was trimmed into three sharp prongs and dyed blue, the same color as his eyes and the curls that fell to his neck. His pointed little mustache was painted gold, and he had a large hooked nose. He was lithe, smooth-skinned, dressed in bright and splendid finery, with one golden tooth.
"Thud!"
The warhorse screamed. Daario raised his weapons, but he saw only the last blur of the warhammer as it swept past. Daario's head was smashed apart, that beautiful, gaudy head. That handsome Tyroshi.
Every soldier of the Stormcrows threw himself to the ground, swords and shields cast away. The two remaining commanders knelt at once. They dropped their weapons. The shadow of death was simply too terrifying. Daario had been the strongest among them, yet he had been torn apart like paper.
The old prince of the Windblown Company saw everything clearly, this bloody, terrible Storm. The Tattered Prince spoke softly, his eyes sorrowful, heavy bags beneath them. His hair and armor were silver-gray, but his cloak was sewn from scraps of cloth in many colors.
"Everyone, turn your horses! Kill Malaquo!" the Tattered Prince shouted. There was no time left to surrender. They could only turn against their former allies.
The other sellsword Companies came to their senses as well. They raised their weapons and charged toward Malaquo's main camp. Even with the citizen soldiers of New Ghis and Volantis before them, they had no choice. To retreat was death.
The battlefield became a cauldron of blazing war, all men and horses crashing together. When every force gathered into a single point, the fighting erupted with a roar.
"Kill!"
Gendry swung the spiked warhammer in his broad, powerful hands. Brutal force focused at one point, flesh collapsed, and skulls shattered. Ser Barristan followed closely behind him, feeling himself somewhat shaken. The young man killed too wildly, reminding him of Robert at The Trident.
"Long live the Storm!"
The cavalry of the Stormlands, the Vale, and Crackclaw Point charged like proud stags, trampling Volantis's final dignity straight into the mud. Twelve foot lances danced, taking soldiers' lives. The deaths brought by battle axes and morningstars were even more horrifying, bursts of heads, brains, and blood. The remaining sellsword Companies, led by the Windblown, turned their blades on their former side.
A golden river swept over everything. Malaquo gathered his last soldiers into one great mass: Volantene reserves, New Ghiscari reserves, and the fighters of Yunkai and Meereen. But those men were worn down and destroyed by the golden tide. The will of the Red God protected Gendry, not them, and the Volantenes had little will left to fight.
At last, Gendry faced the final old man, Malaquo. Malaquo had already taken a sword wound, left by some fleeing Lyseni slave swordsman, and blood had splashed across his sleeve. Of course, that man had also been killed and lay beside Malaquo's guards.
"I have lost," Malaquo said. He was very old and had no teeth, but he was still the famous tiger.
Malaquo wore a fine suit of golden armor and a tiger-skin cloak. The Lord Governor's Unsullied stood in place, dazed, then silently dropped their weapons and knelt before Gendry.
"From this day on, you are free as well," Gendry said to the Volantene Unsullied.
"I wish to die by your hand. I never thought someone so noble, a bloodline of ancient Valyria, would die in the end at the hands of a slave," Malaquo said. "Kill me. Let me die by the hand of the greatest warrior. It is said that the Baratheons were born from the union of a god and a Dragonlord's bastard. To be killed by you is also an honor."
"Why take such a risk?" Gendry asked Malaquo. "You treated me like a child, and today you lost to me."
"There was no choice. It seems that what the heavens raise up cannot be stopped by human strength, just like the Conqueror in his day. Volantis lost its rivers, lost its colonies, and has only slavery left. You still intend to free the Three Cities. Slaves are our foundation. Volantis had no choice. And you still have a trump card, don't you? You have a Dragon, don't you? If you are allowed to continue existing, the whole city-state, the whole world, will be trampled under your feet." Malaquo gave a bitter laugh, and the movement tugged at his wound.
"Who told you that? The Qartheen?" Gendry asked. Those Qartheen would have to be properly dealt with one day.
"Yes." Malaquo shook his head. "And no. Besides them, there were red priests who defected."
"The red priests? So that is why you came with the wind at your backs," Ser Barristan snapped.
"He... he ran. But you will meet him again." Malaquo looked at the two of them, his face growing paler as life drained away bit by bit.
"Beware. Beware Braavos. Beware the Warlocks of Qarth. Dragons and the Sealord are enemies. Warlocks covet the magic of Dragons. Braavos... Braavos will never let you become a true emperor... Defeat Braavos. Become the one and only Conqueror. You are younger than Aegon, and more cunning than Aegon. You... I think you... can."
Malaquo looked at Gendry, a man speaking at the edge of death.
"Do not let them have peace. Break Braavos. Break Qarth." A relieved smile appeared on Malaquo's pale face. "Rebuild the Valyrian empire. Remember the emperor's crown. It was once Volantis's fantasy, but Volantis was never the Dragonlord."
"Thank you. The one who kills you is no one else. It is me, the Storm, the Dragonlord, the Breaker himself."
Gendry swung Orphan-Maker, its dark, smoke-like blade sweeping through Malaquo's body. The tiger's head fell to the ground, and there was no more Malaquo in the world.
"Long live the Storm!"
"Long live!"
Cheers rose and fell across the battlefield. A great victory, a bloody victory, but a beautiful one.
Tyrion was focused entirely on the battle when he heard a thunderous roar from afar.
Rage had swept the field. It sounded as though Malaquo was finished.
Tyrion's mouth fell open, and his heart sank to the bottom of his chest.
...
"Where is Prince Gendry?" Garlan Tyrell asked in confusion. He wore a green cloak and green armor, and behind him came a band of green knights of House Tyrell. Two golden roses adorned Garlan's cloak. By the time they arrived, the battlefield had already become a one-sided rout.
"Over there, Ser Garlan. Prince Gendry has already killed the commanders of Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai." Lord Caron pointed toward the golden whirlwind ahead, looking at Garlan with a strange expression. He was truly exhausted. Holding the shield wall and trading blows had drained a tremendous amount of strength from him, and even the nightingale on his armor had been stained red with blood. "Prince Gendry is chasing Malaquo down. Go now, and perhaps you can still see the old man's head."
"This..." Garlan's face looked very ugly. They had entered the battlefield far too late. It seemed that even snatching some battle glory would not be easy.
"Knights of Highgarden, follow me!"
Garlan gritted his teeth and charged forward anyway, shameless though it was.
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