Early morning light bathed the plains outside Myr Fortress in a soft, welcoming glow. The sky was a flawless blue, and the land beyond the fortress stretched endlessly toward the horizon. At this hour the sun was gentle rather than harsh, and under other circumstances the view might have lifted a man's spirit.
Yet the plains of Myr were never free of death.
A metallic scent lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable—the smell of blood that had soaked into the soil after days of slaughter. Bodies of fallen Dothraki and their warhorses lay scattered across the field before the fortress walls, silent witnesses to the brutal clashes of recent days.
From the heights of Myr Fortress, Gendry surveyed the battlefield. At his side stood Anguy, the Red Viper of Dorne, Ser Jorah Mormont, and Grey Wolf, commander-in-chief of the Free Army. All of them watched the distant Dothraki camp with wary, calculating eyes.
For several days, the Dothraki had hurled themselves against Myr Fortress with relentless ferocity. Wave after wave of riders had charged, only to be driven back with heavy losses. They had failed not only to breach the fortress but even to approach its gates, let alone threaten the wealthy city of Myr behind it. To make matters worse for the invaders, the Myrish defenders had launched frequent night raids, small in scale but devastating in effect, further exhausting the Dothraki and eroding their morale.
Gendry could feel it now—the subtle shift in the enemy's spirit. The Dothraki were weary, their confidence fraying at the edges. They continued to fight not out of certainty, but out of fear: fear of their khal, Khal Drogo, and fear of the shame that retreat would bring.
"The defenses of Myr Fortress are exceptional," Gendry said at last, his gaze still fixed on the plains below. "I leave everything here in your hands, Ser Jorah."
"Rest assured, Your Highness," Jorah replied without hesitation.
Ser Jorah Mormont was no handsome knight of songs. His neck and shoulders were thick and powerful, bull-like in strength. Coarse black hair covered his arms and chest, while his scalp was bare. Yet on the battlefield, his presence inspired confidence. He was steady, dependable, and utterly fearless.
Gendry turned to Grey Wolf. "How are the preparations?"
Grey Wolf answered crisply. "All is ready, my lord."
As commander-in-chief of the Free Army, Grey Wolf stood with rigid discipline. He had short brown hair, a stern face, and a resolute expression that seemed carved from stone. Though only in his twenties, he already carried himself like a veteran. His loyalty was unquestionable, and his command over the Unsullied was absolute.
Below them, the infantry of the Two Cities stood in flawless formation. Rows upon rows of soldiers formed a dense, orderly phalanx, shields locked, spears upright.
"Report," Gendry said.
"We now have one thousand five hundred Unsullied," Grey Wolf continued, "and two thousand heavy infantry under Lord Steel Fist."
"Excellent." Gendry nodded in satisfaction.
These Unsullied had been gathered at great cost. Some had defected from other masters, some were Dothraki Unsullied taken in battle, and others had been sent by Qohor and Pentos. Each man represented not only strength, but a hard-won victory of influence and resolve.
"Khal Drogo wishes to face us head-on," Gendry said calmly. "Very well. I will grant his wish—but on my terms."
After receiving his orders, Grey Wolf and Steel Fist descended from the fortress walls. Not long afterward, the massive gates of Myr Fortress groaned open. From within marched three thousand five hundred infantry, advancing steadily across the field in a precise rectangular formation.
Their armor was uniform: black scale plate that gleamed dully in the morning sun, complemented by black quartered cloaks. Their helmets differed according to unit. The Unsullied at the front wore distinctive spiked helms, while the heavy infantry behind them wore flat-topped helmets. Together, they formed a solid wall of iron and discipline.
From above, Gendry observed in silence.
For Khal Drogo, the sight of an Unsullied shield wall was more than a tactical challenge—it was a reminder of humiliation and death. No Dothraki could forget what had happened beneath the walls of Qohor, where Khal Temo had failed again and again to break the Unsullied formation. That failure had ended not only in his death, but in the annihilation of his khalasar.
"If Khal Drogo leads the charge personally," Gendry said to Jorah, "do not activate the trebuchets again. Let them commit fully. Draw them completely into the battlefield."
"Yes," Jorah answered.
For a time, the Dothraki camp was eerily quiet.
Then, suddenly, a thunderous roar erupted—like a tidal wave crashing against the land. Khal Drogo had made his decision. He could not endure the shame of retreat, nor could he tolerate the slow bleeding of his strength. With his reputation at stake, he chose to gamble everything on a single, decisive assault.
Drogo rode before his warriors atop a blood-red steed, pacing back and forth as the Dothraki cries grew louder. He was taller and more imposing than other khals, his presence alone igniting the fighting spirit of his people. His long black hair, oiled and heavy with fragrance, was braided thickly and adorned with dozens of small metal bells that jingled as he moved. The braid reached past his hips, its ends brushing against his thighs.
"Kill them!" Drogo roared, raising his arakh high. "Kill these cowards!"
With that command, the Dothraki riders surged forward. Thousands of horsemen thundered across the plains, charging straight toward the immovable wall of shields and spears.
Drogo understood Gendry's deployment. He knew he was facing the Unsullied shield wall once more. But he was willing—no, determined—to break it. The losses he had already suffered before Myr Fortress were too great to accept without victory. To withdraw now would shatter his legend.
"Let us go, Prince," Gendry said quietly to the Red Viper. "Our battlefield lies elsewhere."
Watching Drogo hurl his cavalry forward with brutal confidence, Gendry felt his final doubts fade away.
The Red Viper frowned, clearly puzzled. He had expected Gendry to rely on the same strategy used at Qohor—letting the Unsullied grind down the Dothraki through attrition. He had not anticipated anything more elaborate.
Together with Anguy, they descended from the fortress and entered the lower grounds, where cavalry waited in silence.
"So many knights…" the Red Viper murmured.
Before him stood a forest of lances. Heavy knights clad in black armor waited in disciplined ranks, their steel glinting coldly in the sunlight. They looked like living embodiments of iron and force, an elite core commanded by Longspear. As the standard-bearer raised the banner, four distinct emblems bloomed upon a black field.
Nearby stood light cavalry as well—nearly four thousand strong—under the command of Gilo Reha, former leader of the Spear Company. Beyond them gathered a group of Dothraki warriors, former followers of Khal Jhezkahn, now sworn to Gendry's service.
"Altogether, these knights number over ten thousand," the Red Viper calculated quietly, astonished.
Seven thousand heavy knights alone represented an unimaginable investment of gold, armor, and training. And from Gendry's tone, it was clear that this was not even his full strength.
"Commander-in-Chief," Longspear and Gilo greeted him simultaneously.
"Khal! Khal!" shouted the Dothraki warriors, still unarmored and unruly—a troublesome force, but a useful one.
"You will obey Lord Gilo's commands," Gendry said sharply.
"Yes!" the Dothraki answered at once. Fear kept them obedient.
"Gilo," Gendry continued, "you will take one thousand light cavalry and one thousand heavy cavalry. These Dothraki will serve as your reserve. Once we complete the encirclement from both flanks, you will strike and break through."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Move out."
The remaining knights followed Gendry along the length of Myr Fortress, heading north toward a temporary pier by the sea—far from the Dothraki's sight.
The Dothraki had always feared the sea. With ships constantly coming and going, their scouts had long since lost interest in watching the coastline. At this critical moment, with their full attention fixed on the Unsullied shield wall, they would never imagine danger coming from the water.
At the pier, the Red Viper beheld a magnificent sight. Warships of all sizes lay anchored offshore like a constellation of steel and wood. Their quartered banners fluttered proudly as they moved in slow formation toward the docks.
"So this is your gift to the Dothraki," the Red Viper said softly, finally understanding. "A land-and-sea assault."
"Yes," Gendry replied. "The victory at Qohor was sweet—but I intend to surpass it."
The Unsullied shield wall was unbreakable, but it was also static. True destruction came from mobility—from the thunder of cavalry striking where the enemy least expected it.
To stand firm in defense, and to strike with surprise—this was Gendry's design.
As the fleet prepared to carry cavalry along two close coastal routes, one truth became clear: while Khal Drogo focused all his fury on the shield wall before him, death was already moving to close around his flanks—and behind him.
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