The rhythmic, heavy thud of hooves rolled over the eastern hills of Myr. Across the glittering expanse of a winding river, a vast forest of riders and grazing horses darkened the plains. The Dothraki had crossed the Rhoyne, and now they drank from the very lifelines of the Disputed Lands.
Gendry sat atop his black destrier on a high ridge, bringing a Myrish far-eye to his face. The instrument—a masterwork of glass lenses set within a series of collapsing bronze tubes—allowed him to pull the horizon close.
"They do not ride like starving nomads," Gendry muttered, twisting the brass dial to sharpen the image.
Through the glass, he saw the khalasar stretching for miles. The non-combatants, the old, and the slaves were shielded in the center, flanked by thousands of outriders. The Dothraki had conquered the Great Grass Sea, feasting on the ruins of the Ghiscari, and their warriors reflected that bloody abundance. The screamers were massive men with copper skin, dark almond eyes, and black hair bound in bells. They rode half-naked, clad only in painted leather vests, horsehair leggings, and heavy bronze medallions glinting at their waists.
"At this pace, the vanguard will reach the walls of Myr by tomorrow noon," Gendry said, collapsing the far-eye and sliding it into a leather case at his hip. He wore his heavy black scale armor, a spiked warhammer and a recurve bow strapped to his saddle.
Beside him, Prince Oberyn Martell leaned casually on the pommel of his saddle. His Dornish riders formed a loose perimeter around them. The desert knights were a stark contrast to the heavy plate of the Wolf Pack; they wore flowing silk robes over overlapping bronze scales that shimmered like thousands of freshly minted coins.
"They would have reached the gates today if they weren't burdened by their slaves and herds," Oberyn noted, his dark eyes tracking the distant dust clouds.
Before the main host could arrive, Gendry and Oberyn had ridden out with a mere score of outriders to take the measure of the enemy. The speed of the Dornish sand steeds and the disciplined Myrish coursers gave them the mobility to observe and retreat before the horde could swallow them.
"My scouts tell me the banners belong to Khal Jhezkahn," Gendry said.
Oberyn let out a sharp, dismissive breath. "Jhezkahn. A scavenger. He rides to the walls of Qohor every few years to collect his bags of gold and ride away. It seems the Tyroshi silver was too sweet a lure, so he traded the Forest of Qohor for the plains of Myr."
"He is not Drogo," Dick Fletch chimed in from Gendry's left. The veteran archer and advisor kept an arrow nocked, his eyes scanning the riverbanks. "Drogo commands forty thousand screamers and has never tasted defeat. Jhezkahn brings perhaps three thousand, with another six or seven thousand outriders to his name?"
"Break one khalasar, and the rest will think twice before crossing the river," Oberyn said, a dangerous smile spreading across his face.
"The cheese-peddlers of the Free Cities fear them like demons," Fletch grunted, testing the tension of his yew bow. "But flesh is flesh."
"Then let us show the horse lords the strength of our flesh," Oberyn purred.
Gendry kept his gaze fixed on the horde. "They have one advantage, and two fatal flaws. They possess unmatched numbers and fearlessness in an open charge. But they wear no steel, and their siegecraft is non-existent."
"The Qohorik tactic, then?" Oberyn asked.
"Exactly," Gendry nodded. "The Free Army will form the shield wall. If the Unsullied lines hold against the initial wave, we use the heavy cavalry as the hammer. Break their momentum, and they will shatter."
The Dothraki tactics rarely varied: a terrifying shower of arrows followed by a devastating, screaming charge. Once the lines broke, the jaqqa rhan—the mercy men with their heavy axes—would wade through the carnage to separate the dying from their heads.
"Three thousand Unsullied held the gates of Qohor," Fletch noted grimly. "We rely on freedmen. Slaves with spears. Can they hold the line?"
"With the walls of Myr at their backs and the Wolf Pack on their flanks, they will hold," Gendry said, his voice hard as iron.
As they spoke, a splashing sound drifted from the shallows below. A scouting party of thirty Dothraki screamers had crossed the river. When they crested the embankment and spotted the small Westerosi contingent, the horse lords hauled hard on their reins. They exchanged shouted, guttural curses, clearly unaccustomed to the sight of armored men standing their ground instead of fleeing toward the city gates.
A harsh cry went up. The screamers spurred their mounts, pulling back on their short bows, their arakhs gleaming at their hips.
Dick Fletch did not flinch. He drew his longbow to his cheek and loosed in one fluid motion. The ash arrow sang through the air, punching clean through a screamer's painted leather vest. The rider pitched backward off his horse, tumbling into the dust.
Thwack!
Gendry's recurve bow snapped. A second Dothraki folded over his horse's neck, a shaft buried to the fletching in his chest. Gendry had left his prized dragonbone bow at the encampment—the black, high-iron wood was too long and unwieldy for a swift cavalry skirmish—but his aim with the shorter recurve was devastating.
Oberyn laughed aloud, his own bow string humming a deadly rhythm. The Dothraki and Dornish shared a love for the recurve bow, designed to unleash a rapid hail of death from horseback.
The Dothraki roared in fury, unleashing their own volley. Arrows rained down on the ridge. Several struck the heavy plate of the Wolf Pack knights, shattering against the steel or glancing off with sharp, ringing pings. The bronze scales of the Dornishmen absorbed the rest.
The return fire from Gendry, Oberyn, and Fletch was a localized slaughter. Their heavy, armor-piercing bodkin arrows tore through the unarmored Dothraki with sickening ease. Horses screamed and collapsed; riders were pinned to the earth.
Within moments, a dozen outriders lay dead or dying in the tall grass. The surviving Dothraki hauled their horses to a panicked halt, the sheer lethality of the small scouting party breaking their charge.
Gendry spurred his destrier a few paces forward, his voice carrying over the moans of the dying horses.
"Tell your Khal!" Gendry roared, his voice echoing across the river. "I am the Regent of Myr! And he will find no gold here, only iron!"
The remaining screamers did not linger. Lacking the numbers to overwhelm the heavily armored elite, they turned their mounts and fled back toward the river, leaving Gendry and the Red Viper to watch them run.