Blood drenched the earth like dark paint spilled across a battlefield canvas. The warhammer in Gendry's grip dripped red, its spiked head clotted with fragments of bone and flesh. His oak shield was cracked; his black scale armor dented and streaked with gore. Yet his clear blue eyes still burned like twin flames in the darkness.
Purple Beard, fleeing with what remained of his men, saw Rust Kalaz's broken corpse lying at Gendry's feet. The undefeated Meereenese gladiator—their greatest asset, their symbol of strength—lay crushed like a brittle shell. Purple Beard's heartbeat stumbled.
"Run!" he screeched, voice rising in panic. "Run!"
His bandit mercenaries obeyed instantly. Discipline meant nothing to sellswords who valued life over loyalty. They scattered into the dark like frightened rats abandoning a sinking ship. Only the stink of blood and fear remained.
Purple Beard himself escaped only because several of his subordinates threw themselves into Gendry's path, desperately buying their leader the seconds he needed to flee. He dared one last glance over his shoulder.
Gendry stood there like a god of slaughter, looming beside Kalaz's corpse with the warhammer still raised. His entire presence radiated violence. Rage. Storm.
"Where did the Wolf Pack find such a monster?" Purple Beard whispered. He shuddered. He would remember the sight for the rest of his life.
Behind Gendry, the battlefield quieted. Moans faded. Survivors were either fleeing or begging for mercy. Only the bodies—Bandit Mercenaries, escaped slaves, and fallen Wolf Pack knights—remained to bear witness to the chaos.
The Handsome Man's voice cut through the night.
"Strip anything useful! Armor, weapons, coin—anything they carried!"
The Wolf Pack men got to work immediately. Sellswords wasted nothing. Horses that still breathed were claimed. Armor was pried off corpses. Knives cut away pouches and belts. Whatever could be sold, traded, or reused was taken.
Then the orders changed.
"Burn the bodies."
The Wolf Pack always cleared their battlefields.
Three of their own ten mounted knights had fallen. Purple Beard's group had suffered many more. The loss weighed heavily on the survivors.
Gendry walked slowly toward Morningstar's body as the adrenaline drained from his limbs. His arm stung—only now did he notice the ache radiating from his elbow. Swinging a warhammer with that level of force was no small feat; the Meereenese fighter had pushed him to his limit.
Morningstar lay pale, his eyes closed, his face slackened in death. The wound beneath his armpit, where Kalaz's dagger had pierced through the armor joints, still oozed dark blood. Even steel plate had weaknesses.
Longspear and the Handsome Man joined Gendry.
"Morningstar is gone, lad," Longspear said softly, placing a weathered hand on Gendry's shoulder. "But you avenged him. That's more than most get."
"I killed the enemy," Gendry murmured, voice low. "But I couldn't save him."
"That's war," Longspear replied. "Brutal. Unfair. And it never apologizes."
The Handsome Man studied Gendry thoughtfully. "You fought well. Better than any novice I've trained. All of us must cross this threshold sooner or later."
Gendry nodded silently. The words did little to ease the hollow ache settling in his chest.
---
As dawn crept over the hills, slaves from the manor arrived with carts to collect the bodies. First they carried away the fallen Wolf Pack brothers, treating them with reverence. Then they counted the bodies of the bandits.
Thirteen bandit mercenaries. Countless escaped slaves.
Three fallen Wolf Pack knights.
Maester Qyburn emerged from the manor to tend to the wounded, bandaging gashes and examining bruised limbs. The old man worked swiftly, muttering under his breath about infections and fevers.
The Handsome Man moved from corpse to corpse, stripping armor and retrieving coins.
He paused by Rust Kalaz's broken body. "The hammer is still a brutal thing," he said. He knelt and pried open the Meereenese man's chainmail. "Gendry crushed his heart entirely. Look here. The chest is caved in as though a giant stepped on him."
Blunt weapons did that—focused force on a single devastating point.
"But we've stirred up something dangerous," Longspear said as he approached. "A Meereenese pit fighter isn't cheap. Whoever hired these men has deep pockets."
"A skilled Meereenese warrior costs a thousand gold at least," the Handsome Man agreed. "Someone wealthy—someone influential—wanted this manor destroyed. Perhaps an enemy of the Archon."
"Gunpowder herb merchants," Longspear speculated. "Manor lords. Rival factions. Anyone with enough to gain."
"No matter who it is," the Handsome Man said, "we must warn the steward. And Myr. This is bigger than a simple bandit raid."
When Qyburn looked at Rust's corpse, his expression turned oddly analytical.
"He has good bone structure," Qyburn mused, eyes gleaming. "But imagine if he were taller… stronger—"
"Not now," Gendry said sharply. He knew exactly where the old Maester's mind was drifting. Qyburn coughed awkwardly.
"Yes, yes. Later."
---
By midday, the manor's atmosphere had grown tense. Rows of corpses lay outside the walls—bloodied remnants of the night's chaos. Slaves scrubbed blood from the stones while the steward spoke urgently with the Wolf Pack officers.
"Thirteen bandit mercenaries," he whispered, voice trembling. "Three of your brothers dead. And who knows how many escaped slaves…"
"In the past we have dealt with theft, small raids," the steward continued. "But never an attack like this."
"Our message must reach the Archon immediately," the Handsome Man said. "If he has enemies moving against him, they may strike in Myr as well."
---
Later that day, Gendry sat in his room, removing his armor. Sweat and grime clung to his skin. In Westeros, squires handled this task. But here, he stripped it off himself, piece by dented piece.
Qyburn entered quietly.
"You are fortunate, Your Highness," he said. "No serious wounds. A deep cut can kill a man quicker than any sword."
Gendry laughed tiredly. "Did I ever look like a noble tonight?"
"You fought like a storm," Qyburn replied. "And sometimes, that is what a king needs to be."
He sat beside Gendry and spoke in a low voice. "Do you know how House Baratheon began? Orys Baratheon was only a bastard from Dragonstone—until he followed the Conqueror. You have noble blood, strength, and courage. Fate has placed you here for a reason."
"Chaos may come to Myr," Gendry said, eyes sharpening.
"Chaos is already here," Qyburn corrected. "Meereenese pit fighters are far too expensive for a simple bandit raid. Only powerful merchants or Archons could hire such men. And if our employer is in danger…"
"Then we are in danger as well," Gendry finished.
"Exactly," the Maester said. "The power struggles among the Myrish rival even those of Westeros. If Myr enters chaos, the opportunity may arise—one not seen since the Ninepenny Kings."
He hesitated.
"And… you asked about the Meereenese corpse," Gendry said, raising a brow.
Qyburn flushed slightly. "The dead are obedient. They do not fear. They do not rebel. They do not question."
"That's dangerous work," Gendry warned. "Do it in secret. And not now."
Qyburn nodded. "As you wish."
Gendry lay back, staring at the ceiling. The scent of battle still clung to him, mixing with smoke and sweat.
Morningstar was dead.
Purple Beard lived.
Enemies were closing in.
And the Disputed Lands trembled on the edge of something greater—chaos, opportunity, blood.
Gendry's rise had begun. And no storm stopped once it started.