The great plains outside Myr still trembled with the echoes of hooves, screams, and steel. What had begun as a brutal clash had now turned into a rout. The Wolf Pack's cavalry, supported by the Spear Company and the Free Army Knights, tore after the fleeing Dothraki like hounds on a fox. And when Prince Oberyn of Dorne and the Second Sons sprung their double ambush, Khal Jhaqo's mighty Khalasar—once proud, once feared—collapsed like a punctured wineskin.
At the very head of the charge rode the standard-bearers, holding the grey-white banner of the Wolf Pack aloft. It flapped in the wind like a ghostly wolf running across the sky. They carried it with a pride seldom seen among sellswords, for today they rode not merely as mercenaries, but as victors of a great battle.
Gendry Baratheon thundered across the blood-soaked earth, his stallion foaming with sweat. The Dothraki, once the embodiment of untamed ferocity, scattered before him like leaves in a gale. Their famed discipline had turned to sheer panic. The death of their Khal had shattered whatever remaining courage they possessed.
Gendry's warhammer swung left and right with brutal efficiency. Any unlucky rider who crossed his path met a swift and terrible end. His blows came down like falling towers, crushing bone and shattering armor. With each strike, he felt the weapon grow lighter, smoother, more natural in his grip—as though it were an extension of his own arm.
Blunt weapons are king in chaos, he thought. Give them speed, give them strength, and they will do the rest.
Across the battlefield, a thunderous roar began to rise.
"The Khal is dead!"
"The Khal is dead!"
The cry spread like wildfire. Dothraki morale shattered completely.
And on the walls of Myr, the bold citizens who had dared watch the battle unfold erupted into cheers. Khal Jhaqo's shadow had loomed over them for months. Now the man who threatened their homes lay cold on the field, and the people of the Black City let their joy spill out like wine from a broken cask.
Myr itself seemed to vibrate with celebration.
Even so, the Dothraki tradition weighed heavily upon the scattered Khalasar. Their Khal had fallen, and his two Blood Riders had perished with him, as their sacred custom demanded. But those Khals who followed Khal Jhezkahn had no such duty. The moment the Khal's head hit the dirt, they had fled with their own Khas—choosing life over loyalty.
The dust of battle began to settle at last. The smell of sweat and iron lingered in the air, mingling with the stench of burning grass. With Khal Jhaqo and his heir dead, and Khal Jhezkahn's forces dispersed, the remaining spoils were enormous. Horses, weapons, tents, armor, food, slaves—enough to outfit an entire army.
Brown Ben Plumm was the first to regroup the Second Sons. He formed them into a tightening circle, sweeping the plain like a closing fist. Captured Dothraki were pushed forward in clusters.
One by one, they approached Gendry and severed their braids—the black, heavy braids that symbolized their victories, their glory, their pride. The pile of discarded hair grew into a mound, a symbolic mountain marking the triumph of the Wolf Pack over the horse lords.
Gendry rode slowly past the humbled warriors. His warhammer rested on his shoulder, still stained with the blood of their Khal. The Dothraki bowed their heads as he passed, their eyes lowered.
Around them, the various soldiers who had fought under Gendry's command erupted into deafening cheers. The Wolf Pack hollered. The Free Army Knights brandished their swords. The Spear Company clattered their shields. The Second Sons whistled and roared. Even the Unsullied, usually so silent and stoic, beat their shields in rhythmic unison.
Victory was a sweet wine—especially for those who dwelled in the Disputed Lands. They had suffered too long under the terror of the Dothraki raids. Today, they had struck back.
Gendry studied the defeated Screamers. These were proud men, hardened by endless riding and raiding. Tall, bronze-skinned, light-eyed, and wiry-strong. They were born killers—yet now they looked like beaten dogs.
Brown Ben stepped forward, raising his voice. Being part Dothraki himself, he spoke the language fluently.
"Commander Gendry is now the protector of Myr!" he declared. "Your Khals have fled. Your Khal is dead. Pledge loyalty to Gendry—or return to the Dothraki Sea!"
A long, tense silence followed.
Then the cries rose.
"Khal!"
"Khal!"
"Khal of the swinging warhammer!"
The decision was unanimous.
The Dothraki tradition was simple—brutal, but simple. Strength ruled all. If they returned home without a Khal, other Khalasars would devour them. They would lose everything.
Better to bend the knee to a new Khal.
A strong one.
Gendry nodded slightly. The Dothraki were savage, unpredictable, and often little more than mounted raiders—but used correctly, they were a fearsome force. He could put them to work where they excelled.
The roars of the horse warriors rose into the sky, shaking the earth itself. The plains bore witness to the making of a new leader.
Prince Oberyn Martell—the Red Viper—spotted the commotion from afar. He spurred his horse and raced toward Gendry, a grin on his sun-browned face.
"I bring a gift!" he announced.
He tossed a body to the ground—a young Dothraki with a long spear wound through his chest.
"This is Khal Jhaqo's son," Oberyn said. "After the Khal fell, he tried to return for revenge. But I caught him."
Gendry stared at the corpse. The youth's features were still soft, unweathered by age. Under different circumstances, he might have lived a long life.
"Poor child," Gendry murmured.
But he understood. Among the Dothraki, blood was always repaid with blood. Khal Jhaqo himself had risen by slaughtering his predecessor. And the atrocities committed under his rule were notorious.
He recalled stories of brutality—like when Khal Temo destroyed Khal Dahakko's Khalasar. Dahakko, the "Northern Dragon," had been old and weakened. Temo had captured him, cut off his limbs and manhood, roasted them before his eyes, burned Dahakko's wife and child alive, and then burned him to death.
Violence begat violence.
"I will use the heads of two generations of Khals to send the Archon of Tyrosh a warning," Gendry said coldly. "Let them see what becomes of those who meddle in Myr."
Oberyn nodded approvingly.
"And there's more," he added, motioning behind him.
A group of warriors marched forward. At first glance, they resembled Dothraki—bronze skin, narrow black almond eyes—but their faces were hairless and emotionless. They wore bronze Unsullied helmets with tall spikes.
Two hundred of them.
Dothraki Unsullied.
When they knelt, Gendry understood. Oberyn had brought him not spoils, but men.
"These," Oberyn explained, "were once captives from a Khalasar battle. Sold into Slaver's Bay. The Qohorish bought them, then gifted them to Khal Jhaqo to curry favor."
The irony was bitter.
Despite receiving them, the Dothraki despised eunuchs—despised anything they saw as incomplete. They had kept these Unsullied as guards, barely used, barely acknowledged.
Now, with their Khalasar broken, they had nowhere else to go.
Gendry dismounted and approached their leader. When he extended a hand, the Unsullied hesitated—then took it.
Grey Wolf, commander of Gendry's own Unsullied, stepped forward and embraced the newcomers. The sight was unexpectedly touching. Castoffs of two worlds, finding kinship in discipline and hardship.
"With time," Gendry said quietly, "they will become soldiers of the Wolf Pack."
Oberyn smirked. "A small gift. You did the real work. Your cavalry crushed the Khalasar."
Gendry inclined his head. He respected men who fought bravely—and Oberyn had fought like a demon.
Turning to Brown Ben, he issued more orders.
"Count every Dothraki taken alive. Not just the warriors—the old, the weak, the women, and the children."
Brown Ben nodded, understanding the gravity of the command.
"And one more thing," Gendry added, voice lowering. "Watch them closely. I won't tolerate them harming women or anyone else."
The Dothraki had many vile habits—violence, raiding, forced marriages, cruelty. These matters had to be curbed immediately.
"Yes, Commander," Brown Ben said.
With most spoils secured, Gendry, Oberyn, and Brown Ben led their men to finish scouring the battlefield. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the plains. Victory was won, but work remained.
The dead had to be counted.
The living sorted.
The wounded tended.
The spoils claimed.
The Battle of Myr was over.
And Gendry Baratheon had emerged not merely victorious—
But as a rising lord of war in the Disputed Lands.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)