"Woo—woo—woo—woo—woo—woo—!"
The desolate howl of war horns echoed across the plains, reverberating in every direction like the cry of a dying world. Iron-shod hooves thundered against the earth, tearing it apart again and again beneath the charge of the Two Cities' cavalry and the frenzied Dothraki Screamers. War carved its scars deeply into the land—fields churned into mud, grass stained black with blood, and corpses strewn everywhere like discarded offerings to the gods of death.
"The Khal is dead."
"The Khal is dead!"
The words spread like wildfire across the battlefield. With Khal Drogo's death, his once-mighty khalasar instantly collapsed into chaos.
The Dothraki had already wasted far too much time crashing themselves against an unyielding shield wall. Now, with their Khal slain, their final pillar of faith crumbled. Fear replaced fury. Pride shattered into panic. The only thought left in their minds was escape.
"It's burning!"
"It's burning!"
Ahead of them, an even more terrifying sight unfolded. Myr Fortress burned fiercely, thick black smoke boiling upward into the clear blue sky. The cavalry led by the Red Viper had smashed into Drogo's rear camp, cutting down guards and setting fire to tents and wagons alike.
That rear camp held everything the Dothraki cherished—women, children, slaves, livestock, gold, and the wealth they had plundered through years of bloodshed. When the rear was struck, the Screaming Warriors still fighting at the front fell into utter disarray. Their formation collapsed entirely, and discipline vanished in an instant.
The cavalry of the Two Cities surged forward like a black tide, sealing the Dothraki's fate.
Seven thousand heavy cavalry.
Four thousand light cavalry.
Over a thousand auxiliary Dothraki Screaming Warriors.
This was Gendry's most powerful mounted force, forged through years of conquest and reform.
The infantry formations led by Gray Wolf and Steel Fist, the main cavalry under Gendry himself, and the reserve knights commanded by Gilo advanced together. Their crescent-shaped formation pressed forward relentlessly, crushing everything in its path.
Some Dothraki were cut down by flashing steel.
Some were trampled beneath iron hooves.
Others fell screaming beneath a storm of arrows.
Their defeat was total—like a mountain collapsing into dust.
From horseback, Gendry surveyed the chaos ahead. The enemy formation had dissolved into a fleeing mob. The Dothraki no longer even attempted to retrieve Khal Drogo's body.
This battle was over.
The deciding factor had always been the battlefield and the initiative. Heavy cavalry dominated frontal engagements, while the Dothraki excelled in speed and open terrain. Had this battle taken place deep within the vast Dothraki Sea, Gendry would not have dared claim victory so confidently.
But fortifying walls, clearing the fields, and striking with sudden, decisive force—
That was Gendry's specialty.
"Surrender and live!"
"Surrender and live!"
Standard-bearers shouted as they advanced, their banners snapping sharply in the wind. The quartered flags were unmistakable: the warhammer, the three-headed dragon, the liberated slave, and the Wolf Pack.
Yet the Dothraki were a brutal and prideful people.
Many chose death over submission.
Gendry, Longspear, and their cavalry rode through them like farmers harvesting wheat. Every swing of blade or hammer cut down another life.
Gendry wielded two weapons: a spiked warhammer and an arakh. Though he had once favored the hammer, he now preferred the savage grace of the curved blade. The Valyrian steel arakh gleamed like a pale, cold moon, sweeping through panicked faces and leaving only death behind.
"Those who died with Drogo were his elite," Gendry thought coldly.
Many of the warriors falling before him were young and strong—men who had followed Khal Drogo with absolute loyalty until the end.
"Kill only the combatants," Gendry commanded firmly. "End this quickly."
The battlefield was no place for sentiment.
"Long live the Warhammer!"
"Long live Lord Gendry!"
The battlefield roared—a symphony of clashing steel, screams of agony, the thunder of hooves, and the howl of victory. It was cruel, decisive, and merciless.
Gendry rode through the aftermath. Dying horses lifted their heads and screamed. The wounded groaned or whispered prayers. Medics wearing white badges emerged, tending injuries with practiced efficiency.
Gendry dismounted repeatedly, gripping wounded soldiers' hands, asking their names, their homes, their final wishes if they feared death.
He ordered military judges to record every name.
These men had fought for his cause—for the future of the Triarchy. He would remember them.
After the battle, the land before Myr Fortress resembled a massive meat grinder. Blood soaked every inch of soil, darkening as it cooled. Severed heads, broken weapons, arrows, and discarded braids bore silent witness to the brutality of war.
Gendry removed his helmet, revealing dark hair and deep blue eyes. Without armor obscuring his face, he appeared young, vigorous, and strikingly heroic.
"Maintain discipline," he told Jorah. "The Wolf Pack, the Free Cities troops, and the Second Sons follow strict order. Only the auxiliary Dothraki may still be unruly."
"If there is looting, arson, or unnecessary killing—deal with it."
"Yes, my lord," Jorah replied. He wore a dark green surcoat over blackened refined steel armor. No one understood the Dothraki better than him.
Nearby, Anguy grinned broadly, holding a magnificent double-curved dragonbone longbow—once belonging to Qotho, Drogo's Blood Rider. Gendry had gifted him both the bow and the horse.
The spoils of war were immense.
Drogo's warhorse.
His golden belt.
His gold-handled whip.
And finally… his head.
By dusk, a longspear stood planted in the earth near Gendry, Khal Drogo's head impaled upon it, the fatal wound still visible.
Behind it, several gallows stood grimly. The Dothraki auxiliaries who had disobeyed orders were already hanging.
The envoys of Myr, Tyrosh, Qohor, Norvos, Lys, and Pentos arrived trembling. What chilled them most was not the battlefield—but Drogo's head.
One Drogo had already terrified Essos. Now someone even more fearsome stood before them.
"The old king has fallen," they realized.
"A new king has risen."
"I notice Braavos and Lorath are absent," Gendry said calmly.
Silence followed.
The envoys quickly began flattering him, offering grain, gold, ships, and support. They understood the rules of power.
Gendry accepted without excess enthusiasm. Everyone knew the unspoken truth: they hoped he would turn west toward Westeros, exhausting himself in that war rather than expanding further in Essos.
Hoofbeats interrupted the flattery.
Surrendered Dothraki approached, cutting off their braids and throwing them at Gendry's feet.
"Khal Warhammer…"
To the Dothraki, strength was law.
"You obey me now," Gendry said. "Follow my commands."
"Yes, Khal."
These warriors—properly reorganized—were Gendry's greatest prize.
Later, the Red Viper arrived with captives from Drogo's rear camp.
"You've done well," Gendry said sincerely.
As dusk fell, bonfires rose across the plain.
But new trouble approached.
Qyburn arrived, pale and urgent.
"My lord… Prince Viserys…"
Far away, on the road to the Dothraki Sea, the defeated khalasar fled like hunted animals.
Khal Pono snarled at a captured witch.
"You lied."
She stared coldly at the sky.
"You destroyed my village," she said. "I gave you the prophecy you deserved."
Pono ordered her death.
And so the wheels of fate continued to turn.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)