The Wolf Pack Company's banner still flew defiantly above Firegrass Manor, the grey wolves emblazoned upon it snapping in the wind like spirits urging the men onward. Outside the side gate, the Wolf Pack Knights thundered forth, armor gleaming, hooves pounding like war drums. Their longswords clashed against their scabbards as they rode, creating a harsh metallic rhythm that sounded like a song of steel and fury.
Not all carried swords. Some bore longspears, some heavy flails, others brutal maces—the tools of hardened sellswords who had survived countless battles in the Disputed Lands.
Purple Beard stood among the corpses littering the ground near the manor wall—dead escaped slaves, shattered by arrows and spears. Their lifeless bodies sprawled like crushed insects. His eyes, cruel and cold as winter stone, narrowed.
"So the legends about the Wolf Pack are true," he muttered. "A tough lot indeed."
Behind him, his treasurer leaned close and whispered, "Boss… without siege equipment, it will be difficult to breach this place. This manor belongs to the governor. It's well-defended, well-prepared—"
Purple Beard scoffed, his purple-dyed beard twitching. "A governor? What of it? Don't we have our governor's backing this time?"
He turned toward a tall, thin man standing just behind him. "What do you think, Lord Rust?"
The man called Lord Rust stepped forward. His hair was the color of dull copper, his skin pale, and his eyes dark and dead like those of a corpse pulled from a river. He carried an arakh—a curved, vicious Dothraki blade—held loosely but with deadly confidence.
"This is only our first attack," Rust said coldly. "To retreat now would damage our reputation. We press the assault."
The order needed no further explanation.
"Kill!"
The Wolf Pack Knights collided with Purple Beard's bandit knights in a violent crash of metal and horseflesh. Behind the bandits, the escaped slaves saw the battle turn against them and immediately scattered into the dark, their courage fleeing far faster than their feet.
The sellswords fought fiercely. Blood sprayed. Horses screamed. Armor split. The battlefield was chaos incarnate.
"Follow me!" the Handsome Man roared, swinging his longsword in both hands as he hurled himself toward Purple Beard.
A Wolf Pack mercenary was impaled on a bandit knight's spear, the force knocking him off his saddle. Another bandit had his spine shattered by a brutal kick from Longspear's warhorse.
Though outnumbered, the Wolf Pack fought with the discipline and savagery of men who had survived a hundred skirmishes. Purple Beard's men were more numerous, but they were loose and disorganized.
One reckless bandit knight charged straight at Gendry.
Gendry didn't flinch. He leveled his warhammer and struck.
CRUNCH.
The warhammer smashed through leather armor and ribs alike. The bandit flew backward, dead before he hit the ground. Gendry yanked the weapon free, blood dripping from its spikes.
Another attacker lunged, thrusting a spear toward Gendry's chest. He parried with the hammer's shaft. The man leapt back—
—but Morningstar's horse barreled through him, trampling him beneath iron-shod hooves.
A spear suddenly whistled toward Gendry from the right.
THUD.
It buried itself into his oak shield. Gendry didn't hesitate. He spurred his horse and charged the thrower, who raised a shield desperately above his head.
He circled the bandit.
And struck.
Hard.
The mace came down like a falling star.
Wood exploded.
Bone cracked.
Blood spurted.
The man fell with half his face crushed, collapsing into the mud like a discarded puppet.
"Morningstar!" Gendry yelled suddenly.
Gendry's instructor was on the ground. His horse must have been speared earlier and thrown him off. Surrounded, Morningstar fought on foot, his spiked weapon swinging with brutal precision. Bodies lay at his feet, men who had underestimated the stocky warrior.
"Watch closely, kid!" Morningstar bellowed. "This is—"
His grin faded.
A bolt slammed into his shoulder from a hidden crossbow. He staggered.
Before he could regain balance, a tall, lean figure stepped from behind him—Rust Hair Kalaz, the gladiator of Meereen. His arakh gleamed under the moonlight.
"Die," Kalaz hissed.
He moved with terrifying speed, circling Morningstar. Blades flashed. Sparks flew.
Morningstar swung his weapon in wide arcs, pushing back the first blows. But Kalaz's movements were too quick, too fluid. A flick of his wrist, a shift in his footwork—
—and the dagger in his other hand stabbed upward, sliding under Morningstar's armpit where the armor joints were weakest.
The blade sank deep.
Morningstar gasped. Blood poured down his side. He gave Gendry one final, tragic smile.
"I'm… sorry."
And he fell.
"NO!" Gendry roared.
But he was trapped in his own fight, unable to reach Morningstar in time.
Seeing his instructor fall filled him with raw fury. Something inside him broke loose. His vision tinged red. His muscles tensed.
He became a storm.
He charged.
Two bandit knights blocked him. Gendry struck them aside like a raging bull, sending them flying from their saddles.
Purple Beard's men scattered as Gendry barreled toward Kalaz.
Kalaz wiped Morningstar's blood from his dagger with an elegant strip of white silk. "Another child who thinks himself a hero," he sneered. "Are you next to die?"
Gendry dismounted. He said nothing.
He lifted his warhammer.
Kalaz grinned. "Then come."
The two faced each other amid the battle's roar, as if the world had narrowed to only them.
Kalaz raised his arakh. "You have the right to know the name of the man who will carve your heart out. I am Rust Kalaz—undefeated in the fighting pits of Meereen."
He moved.
Fast.
The arakh sliced downward in a blur. Then again. And again. Blades whistled like rain in a storm. Gendry raised his shield and hammer, blocking each strike as sparks flew across his armor.
Kalaz's blade aimed for Gendry's throat.
Gendry intercepted.
Kalaz slashed at his head.
Gendry blocked.
Kalaz struck his chest.
The scale armor held.
Gendry countered.
Their weapons clashed again and again, the clang echoing across the night. Kalaz's speed was incredible—inhuman. But Gendry possessed something the gladiator did not:
strength that bordered on monstrous.
And raw, burning fury.
Kalaz cursed. "Coward! Hiding behind armor!" He darted in, slicing at Gendry's shoulder. The blade scraped uselessly against the black scale armor.
Gendry stepped forward.
And struck.
CRACK.
The warhammer smashed into Kalaz's cheek. His face caved. Blood exploded. Kalaz screamed.
"You… bastard—" he hissed through broken teeth.
Gendry did not stop.
Kalaz's arakh slashed wildly. Gendry blocked only attacks aimed at his head. The rest he ignored.
Pain didn't matter.
Only the hammer mattered.
Kalaz tried to retreat. He stumbled. Gendry advanced, step by heavy step.
"Die!" Gendry roared.
The warhammer descended like the wrath of a god.
WHAM!
The spike punched through Kalaz's chest. Bone shattered. Ribcage collapsed. The gladiator's body folded in half.
Kalaz fell.
Dead.
And the storm of Gendry's fury swept across the battlefield once more.