The early-morning sea breeze carried a faint chill, though Myr's low latitude ensured that the overall climate remained warm and comfortable. The sun rose slowly above the horizon, its pale golden light spreading across the fertile plains beyond the city walls. Dew clung to the grass, shimmering briefly before evaporating under the growing heat.
The Three Daughters had always been wealthy.
Fertile land, a mild climate, and their advantageous coastal position had made Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys rich beyond reason. Trade flowed endlessly through their harbors, and gold passed through their markets like water. Yet wealth, like blood, had a way of attracting predators.
Outside Myr Fortress, the ground trembled beneath pounding hooves.
Dothraki Screamers surged forward in a thunderous tide, their fierce war cries echoing across the open land. They brandished curved arakhs high above their heads, dark braids whipping in the wind as they charged.
Within the fortress, the defenders stirred.
Warriors fastened armor, checked blades, and took their positions along the walls. Their faces were calm and cold, eyes fixed on the approaching horde. They had seen this before—countless times—and fear had long since burned away.
The Dothraki were tall and broad-shouldered, their skin bronzed by sun and wind. Light brown eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows, and their black hair was braided with bells that chimed as they rode.
"It seems the Dothraki haven't lost many of their sheep-men slaves," Gendry observed, scanning the battlefield. "This time, it's a cavalry unit."
"Their numbers are only a few thousand," the Red Viper replied calmly. "It looks like a symbolic probe by Khal Drogo rather than a full assault."
A mournful military horn sounded from Myr Fortress, its chilling echo crawling across the plain like a warning from the grave.
Gendry heard the familiar symphony of war awaken around him: the groaning rotation of catapult arms, the creak of tightened bowstrings, the metallic clatter of steel shifting into readiness.
"Fire," Gendry commanded evenly.
The catapults roared.
Massive stones arced through the sky, trailing dust and debris before crashing down among the charging Dothraki. Horses screamed as bodies were crushed beneath shattered rock.
Scorpion crossbows remained silent for now. Though powerful, their range was inferior to that of longbows; they would be unleashed only once the enemy drew closer.
Gendry had prepared thoroughly. Spears, loose stones, arrows—everything was ready. If the Dothraki somehow reached the gates, they would be met with boiling oil and death.
But judging from their formation, they would never reach that far.
The Dothraki were masters of open warfare, unmatched on flat land, but they possessed no siege equipment and little patience for prolonged assaults.
Jorah Mormont licked his dry lips.
As the commander overseeing the fortress defenses, he felt the oppressive weight of the battlefield pressing down on him. The heat, the tension, the endless noise—it all drained him.
"Attack like waves," Gendry said quietly, watching the Dothraki crash forward again and again. "Defend like bedrock."
Wave after wave slammed into Myr Fortress.
And each time, they broke.
"The Dothraki are within range," Gendry ordered. "Loose arrows."
The horn sounded again, sharper this time.
Longbowmen stepped forward.
From their elevated positions, arrows rained down with deadly precision. Dothraki Screamers who had managed to gallop past the trench fell one after another, tumbling from their saddles.
"Yes, Your Highness," Black Billy said, nodding sharply.
His hundred-man Summer Isles Guard stood ready.
Gendry, Anguy, and Black Billy led the elite archers. They drew first, their movements practiced and fluid, followed closely by the rest of the longbowmen.
More than a thousand longbowmen manned the walls of Myr Fortress—enough to withstand almost any assault.
This force is better equipped than the Golden Company, the Red Viper thought, glancing at the disciplined archers. Perhaps even richer than the Westerlands.
The Golden Company fielded ten thousand men: a thousand archers, five hundred knights—each with three horses—another five hundred attendants, and the rest infantry.
The Alliance of the Twin Cities possessed even more knights and longbowmen, not to mention their allied Dothraki Screamers.
Cavalry represented not only military strength, but immense wealth.
The Red Viper's estimation of the Alliance's power rose once more.
Gendry's gaze locked onto a small vanguard unit foolish enough to ride straight into range.
Tall Dothraki Screamers, led by a massive, imposing man.
Not Khal Drogo—but clearly a leader.
"Three arrows each?" Anguy asked, eyes gleaming.
"Go ahead," Gendry replied.
He picked up Anguy's arrows from the ground. Their hardened tips could pierce plate armor; using them against lightly armored Dothraki felt almost unfair.
Gendry raised his dragonglass bow.
It was taller than Daenerys herself.
Forged from black dragonglass with high iron content, the bow gleamed like frozen night. Light, strong, and unyielding, it was a treasure beyond price.
Whoosh.
The arrow flew.
The Dothraki Screamer fell instantly.
The vanguard leader roared in fury, waving his arakh—
Then another arrow pierced his chest.
He toppled from his horse.
"My turn," Anguy said eagerly.
His longbow sang.
Each arrow struck true.
"The dragonglass bow really is unmatched," Anguy muttered. "Even the reinforced bow the Arrow Maker gave me can't compare."
"I heard Khal Drogo owns one too," Gendry said. "His Blood Riders carry it."
"Then I'll take it from him," Anguy said confidently.
Black Billy's archers joined in, their goldenheart bows thundering. Though slightly inferior in range, they were still deadly.
The battlefield descended into chaos.
Shouts, whinnying horses, ringing bells, and the crash of stone filled the air.
The Dothraki charged bravely—but bravery meant nothing here.
They were unarmored, exposed.
Targets.
Gendry watched them die.
Those struck by catapult stones became twisted piles of flesh.
Those pierced by arrows collapsed silently, leaving only screaming horses behind.
"Fine shooting," the Red Viper said softly. "Worthy of true marksmen."
He imagined the Stranger walking unseen among the fallen, harvesting souls with every volley.
He had once despised archers.
But time—and war—had changed his mind.
Used properly, arrows were as deadly as any sword.
The Dothraki left behind a carpet of corpses.
They retreated at last.
"Long live the Warhammer!"
"Long live the Warhammer!"
Cheers erupted from the walls.
Victory belonged to the Commander-in-Chief.
Gendry stared at the distant horizon.
What will you do next, Drogo?
This had been only a test.
The real storm had yet to come.
The waves had broken.
The rock remained.
"Why the long face?" King Robert asked, raising his wine skin. "A drink will fix that."
They rode through the Kingswood, searching for the legendary white stag.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
Eddard Stark felt uneasy.
King's Landing was a nest of schemes, and now war stirred in the Riverlands.
Edmure Tully's deployment haunted him—four thousand men below the Golden Tooth, an almost suicidal choice.
If Lannister cavalry struck from above, disaster was inevitable.
"Forget it," Eddard muttered.
The Mountain's atrocities weighed heavily on him.
Burned villages.
Slaughtered peasants.
Justice in King's Landing felt hollow.
"Robert," Eddard said carefully, "the Mountain must be punished."
"I gave the order," the King replied. "That brute is dangerous. Capture him alive if you can. Let Tywin deal with him."
Eddard's unease deepened.
Balance.
Always balance.
"But who did you send?" Robert asked.
"Beric Dondarrion commands the mission," Eddard replied. "With Thoros of Myr."
Less than a hundred men.
Too few, Eddard thought.
He remembered the Knight of Flowers' angry face.
Perhaps I was wrong, he admitted inwardly.
But justice was justice.
"Look," Robert said suddenly. "That boy across the Narrow Sea is fighting the Dothraki."
"If we were prepared," Eddard replied, "it might be the right time."
"But we're not."
Robert sighed.
"I'm old," he muttered. "The gods mock me."
"I will still fight for you," Eddard said.
"You, Stannis, and Jaime," Robert said. "That's my war council."
Eddard said nothing.
Lancel poured more wine.
Lannister colors everywhere.
Not yet, Eddard thought.
I'll wait.
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