Gendry dismounted, his boots sinking into the blood-slicked mud of the marsh. He looked down at his warhammer, the iron head caked with the remains of the Goat of Qohor.
"The hammer still holds its weight," Gendry muttered, reaching down to grab the colorful, multi-colored cloak of a fallen Mummer to wipe away the gore. "Though I'd trade a dozen of these for one forged of Valyrian steel."
Around him, the battlefield was a charnel house. The black goat banner of Qohor lay in tatters, trampled by the heavy destriers of the Wolf Pack. The Brave Companions—the rapists, murderers, and thieves who had plagued the Disputed Lands for years—were finally silent. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the smell of ozone from the cooling armor.
The battle was over. The only sound was the rhythmic thud of the Wolf Pack knights finishing the wounded and the slow, disciplined advance of Longspear's shield-wall.
At the center of the field, fifteen Unsullied remained. They stood in a tight circle, their bronze shields overlapping, their spears leveled at the hundreds of Wolf Pack and Free Army soldiers surrounding them. They were like a single, wounded organism, prepared to die in absolute silence.
Longspear looked to Gendry, his hand on his sword hilt, waiting for the order to finish them.
"Hold!" Gendry commanded.
"Commander, they won't surrender," Iron Fist warned, his horse's flanks heaving. "The Unsullied fight until the last man falls. If we don't kill them now, they'll wait until we sleep."
"They are slaves, same as the men who stand beside us now," Gendry said, looking at the expressionless faces behind the bronze caps. "The Myrish commander who bought them is halfway back to the city. The men who fed them the Wine of Courage are dead in the dirt."
Gendry walked toward the circle, his warhammer over his shoulder.
"You are free!" Gendry shouted to the Unsullied. "The contract is broken. The Magisters have abandoned you. You can choose to die here for a city that doesn't know your names, or you can walk away."
The leader of the Unsullied—a man with two spikes on his bronze cap—didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lowered his shield. He looked at the Free Army soldiers, many of whom were still wearing the rags of the Fire-weed estate, and saw something he hadn't seen in a lifetime: recognition.
The leader dropped his spear into the mud. He lowered himself to one knee, followed instantly by the other fourteen.
"Freedom," the leader rasped. It was a word that felt heavy and strange in his mouth.
"I accept your service," Gendry said, stepping forward to pull the leader to his feet. "From this day forward, you are not 'Property'. You are men. You will pick your own names, elect your own officers, and the Wine of Courage is banned in this camp. You will learn to feel again."
The leader looked at Gendry with dark, hollow eyes. "My name was cursed when I was taken," he said. "Today, I am born again. I will be Grey Wolf (Hui Lang). For the Pack."
"Welcome home, Grey Wolf," Gendry said.
The aftermath was brutal. Gendry ordered the heads of Vargo Hoat, Shagwell the Fool, and Septon Utt spiked on long poles along the main road to Myr—a "Sack of King's Landing" in reverse, intended to show the Magisters that their monsters had no power here.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Maester Qyburn approached Gendry near the command tent. The old man looked energized by the carnage, his mind already calculating the political fallout.
"Two matters for your attention, Commander," Qyburn said.
"I hope one of them is wine," Gendry replied, pulling off his iron mask.
"The first is an offer of cooperation. Bloodbeard, the captain of the Company of the Cat, has sent a messenger. He has three thousand men and wants to join us in a sack of Myr."
Gendry frowned. "Bloodbeard? I've heard of him. A savage with a red beard who burns everything he touches. We aren't here to sack Myr, Qyburn. We're here to take the land. If we let that beast into the city, he'll leave us with a graveyard, not a capital."
"I agree," Qyburn nodded. "The Company of the Cat is too unruly. We would be better served courting the Tattered Prince and his Windblown. They are professionals, and they have no love for the Cats."
"And the second matter?"
Qyburn's expression changed—a rare look of genuine intrigue. "A guest has arrived at the estate under a flag of truce. He traveled with a small retinue from the south."
"A Myrish Magister?"
"No," Qyburn whispered. "Prince Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper of Dorne."
Gendry went still.
Dorne was the only kingdom in Westeros that still hungered for the blood of his father's house. The Martells had never forgotten Princess Elia or the children murdered by the Lannister's Mountain. To them, every Baratheon was an accomplice to the crime.
"Why is he here?" Gendry asked.
"He says he has come to meet the 'Hammer King' who dares to challenge the Free Cities," Qyburn replied. "But I suspect he has come to see if the rumors are true—that the stag has returned to life in the Disputed Lands."
Gendry looked at his warhammer, then at the blood on his hands. "Let him in. I've always wanted to see if a Viper's teeth are as sharp as they say.
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