The morning breeze was cool, carrying the salty tang of the sea and the faint stench of blood. Mill, the city by the shore, smelled of fish and iron. Sunlight spilled across the waves, gilding the walls, towers, and palaces of Mill with a golden sheen.
After the naval battle at Tyrosh, chaos erupted in Myr as its military forces weakened. Some of Myr's slave-owners, refusing to accept defeat, attempted to restore the old order. But their efforts met a swift and brutal counterattack.
Brown Ben stood atop Mill's walls, surveying the battlefield below. Civil war raged fiercely within the city, yet the Restorationists were faltering, their resistance all but broken. The Free Clans and the Second Sons still held Mill's walls, high ground, and most of its districts. These two forces supported the city's new order, while most of Mill's citizens had chosen to bar their doors and watch events unfold from their homes.
"After this round," Brown Ben muttered, "we've still won."
His wide, black almond-shaped eyes—an inheritance from his Dothraki mother—narrowed as he spotted banners in the distance. Relief washed over him. The approaching standard was not the three-headed god of Tyrosh that the rebels longed to see, but a gray-white banner emblazoned with howling wolves—wolves that seemed alive, crying out through the wind.
The flag-bearer led the procession like the first of a charging pack. Behind him followed ranks of steel-fisted knights, their armor glinting as they marched down the Valyrian road stretching from Myr to Mill.
"Tell our men—the savior of Mill has returned!" Brown Ben roared.
The ancient bugle call echoed once more over the city, its notes sharp and urgent. The blare of the horn mingled with the shouts of Second Sons soldiers, Free Army fighters, and the cheers of the city's carriage drivers who manned the walls.
"Mill's savior has returned!"
"Commander-in-Chief Gendry is back!"
"Tyrosh has fallen!"
The Restorationists—those still locked in chaotic resistance—turned pale. Their leader, once Mill's governor, was a retired noble. Many citizens of Mill, still resentful over the abolition of slavery and the dismantling of plantations, had seen Tyrosh's counterattack as an opportunity to reclaim their privileges. They had risen eagerly in rebellion. Now, panic gripped them.
The wolf-banners drew closer. Gendry's knights galloped to the gates of Mill and reined in their mounts. On the wall, Brown Ben rushed down to greet them, followed by several dozen riders.
"Commander-in-Chief!" Brown Ben dismounted and knelt.
"As expected," he reported, "some of Mill's governors and slave-owners rioted after hearing of the Tyrosh war. But we anticipated this. We control the walls and the high ground. The Restorationists are fighting a hopeless last stand."
"Where are the port and the city hall?" Gendry asked.
"Also secured, my lord."
"Good. That's well done," said Gendry, his tone approving. Brown Ben had commanded only five hundred Second Sons cavalry and a few hundred Free Army drivers, yet he had taken the advantage with shrewd foresight. "But the Dothraki are coming soon. I've no time to waste on these would-be slave-masters."
"I've compiled a list of the Restorationists," Brown Ben whispered, handing Gendry a sealed document.
"Very good." Gendry nodded and raised his warhammer high. "Victory is certain!"
"Victory is certain!" the soldiers echoed, drawing their weapons—longswords, axes, flails, and hammers. The clang of steel resounded like thunder.
"Into the city!" Gendry commanded.
The gates opened, and his cavalry thundered forward. With Brown Ben's cunning preparations, the battle within Mill was nearly decided. The wolves of the North and the Free Army would now deliver the final blow before the Dothraki arrived.
"You are… Prince Oberyn?" Brown Ben exclaimed in surprise as he spotted the familiar face beside Gendry. Years ago, Oberyn Martell had served briefly with the Second Sons.
"It's been a long time, Brownie," the Red Viper said with a smile. "You've gotten older."
"You too, Your Highness." The brown man returned the smile but asked no questions. There would be time for talk later—first, the city had to be secured. "Once we crush these traitors, I'll see you again."
---
Knights flooded into Mill like a tide of iron. The gray-clad cavalry of the Wolf Pack led the charge, smashing through barricades, while the lighter Free Army and Longpole regiments swept through side streets to cut off retreat. This day would mark the end of many of Mill's old noble families.
Gendry's knights struck like a hurricane, slaughtering traitors in the alleys and courtyards. Blood spattered their armor and dripped from their lances. They had no mercy to spare for those who dared to raise arms against the new order.
The rebels fought back with what weapons they had—triple-shot crossbows, fine armor, and desperate courage—but they lacked siege engines, high ground, or discipline. The men of Mill were merchants, not warriors. Their ranks collapsed like wet parchment under the fury of the northern charge.
The Second Sons were stretched thin, but Gendry's arrival tipped the balance completely. The Restorationists' defeat became inevitable.
"Kill!" Gendry bellowed. His warhammer rose and fell like a storm.
Before him stood a young Mill noble—olive-skinned, black-haired, and clad in ornate armor. The youth's stance was proud, but his skill was pitiful. Gendry's first blow crushed his chestplate inward; the second shattered bone. The young man collapsed, blood bubbling from his lips.
"Devil!" screamed his companions, but their words were faster than their blades. Gendry's hammer swept again, crushing skulls and scattering their line like wheat before a scythe.
Behind him, Oberyn followed silently, watching the massacre unfold. This was no battle—it was an execution. The Restorationists had thought Tyrosh's defeat would open the door to their return, but Gendry had laid the trap from the start.
"The liberators are back!" shouted one of Mill's free citizens. Doors began to open across the city. A few brave souls joined the fight, striking at the Restorationists who had oppressed them. These traitors had slaughtered free citizens and threatened any who refused to obey. Now the people turned on them.
Battle cries rolled across Mill from south to north, east to west. Cavalry rode through the streets, cutting down the rebels and dragging their corpses to the city square.
By dusk, the last stronghold of the Restorationists had fallen. Governor Casa, the ringleader of the coup, poisoned himself and his family in their mansion rather than face capture.
Veterans broke open the gates of the governor's palace and dragged out the bodies of Casa and his co-conspirators, throwing them before Gendry. The young commander looked down at the lifeless faces, his expression unreadable. Power, he realized, was colder than steel. The order he had forged would always breed resentment—and hatred would be its shadow.
But the crown, the command, the burden of rule—wasn't this the path he had chosen? The only path left to him?
"You know what to do next," Gendry said quietly to Brown Ben.
"Understood," Brown Ben replied solemnly. "Those named on the traitor list will be declared public enemies. Anyone who knew of their plots but failed to report them will be summoned to City Hall."
"Good. Get it done," Gendry said, his eyes already fixed on the horizon. "The centaurs will arrive soon. That's the real battle."
---
The shouts of victory echoed over the blood-soaked streets of Mill. The wolf banners fluttered in the sea wind, gray and white against the red-stained sky. The city was safe—for now. But the storm that Gendry felt stirring beyond the sea had only just begun to gather.
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