The shadow of the horse lords fell over Myr long before the first screamer breached the horizon.
Whispers of the Dothraki swept through the winding streets like a plague wind, slamming heavy oak shutters shut and emptying the bustling bazaars. Since the Doom of Valyria and the Century of Blood, the Dothraki had been the ultimate harbinger of ash. They believed the earth was their mother, and to tear her skin with plows or spades was a blasphemy punishable by death. Their holy mandate was to burn farms and cities, returning the world to the Great Grass Sea.
History books in the Myrish manses told of their slaughter: the tall men of the Sarnori Kingdom, the forest dwellers of Ifequevron, and the Qartheen cities of the Red Waste—all reduced to dust beneath Dothraki hooves. Not since Khal Temmo broke his fifty-thousand-strong khalasar against three thousand Unsullied at the gates of Qohor had the Free Cities faced such a concentrated threat.
But it was not just the impending slaughter that stoked the fires of Myr. Through the quiet, calculated work of Qyburn's whisperers, the truth flooded the alleys: the exiled Myrish Magisters and the Tyroshi Archon had purchased this doom. They had paid the Dothraki to burn the new order to the ground, offering the lives of their own citizens as collateral.
"Traitors!"
"They sell our blood for their gold!"
Merchants who had locked their doors against the freedmen only a day prior now spilled into the streets, their faces pale with betrayal. The conservative Myrish citizens, who had quietly hoped for the old masters' return, found their loyalty rewarded with a death sentence. To survive, they had no choice but to stand beside the very slaves they had once despised.
The tides of panic and fury converged at the Lace Plaza, beneath the towering white spires of the Myrish Town Hall. A forest of steel pikes, held by the disciplined ranks of the Wolf Pack and the Free Army, provided a chilling, immovable anchor amidst the chaos.
Gendry stood upon the raised marble dais, a storm of black scale armor. His deep blue eyes swept over the tens of thousands gathered below—a volatile mix of seasoned artisans, silken-robed merchants, and scarred freedmen.
Behind him stood Dick Fletch, resting his grip on the black, gleaming curve of his dragonbone bow. From the shadows of a marble pillar, Prince Oberyn eyed the weapon with professional envy. A true dragonbone bow—surpassing even the goldenheart wood of the Summer Isles—was a king's ransom in lethal form.
"Citizens of Myr! Freedmen! Artisans! Merchants!" Gendry's voice boomed across the plaza, echoing off the white spires. The murmurs died instantly, suffocated by the sheer weight of his command.
"Myr stands on the edge of a knife. The horse lords ride for our gates. They come to scour this beautiful city, to slaughter your families, and to pull down your homes so their horses might graze on the ruins. What do you say to them?"
"Kill the screamers!" a massive freedman roared, his voice cracking with hatred. The emancipated slaves knew the Dothraki took captives to drag back to Vaes Dothrak; they would not wear chains a second time.
"Kill the traitors!" an elderly lace-merchant screamed, his fists shaking in the air. The cry was taken up by the natural-born citizens, their voices merging with the freedmen in a chorus of desperate, violent unity.
Gendry watched the crowd, his face an unreadable mask of iron, though a profound satisfaction settled in his chest. The Dothraki had handed him the perfect crucible. By surviving this siege, the exiled Magisters would be permanently erased from Myrish sympathy, and the people would bind themselves to the Hammer King.
The masters of the Myrish Round Table—the guild leaders of lace, carpets, lenses, and the newly elevated freedmen representatives—stepped to the base of the dais, dropping to their knees.
"You are the shield and the sword of Myr, Commander!" they shouted in unison. "Lead us!"
"I accept this burden," Gendry declared, drawing his warhammer and hoisting the spiked head toward the sun. "We will break the butchers! For Myr! For the Disputed Lands! For a million free men!"
"Victory!" The roar shook the dust from the plaza tiles. Thousands of spears and swords clashed against shields, a deafening tide of steel that washed over the city.
Oberyn Martell rubbed the faint silver at his temples, his dark eyes fixed on the towering young Baratheon. He turns their terror into absolute devotion, the Red Viper mused, feeling a rare chill of awe. Perhaps I truly am growing old. The era of the dragons and the old stags is fading. This is his time.
Brown Ben Plumm stepped forward, unrolling a heavy parchment. As Commander of the City Watch, his weathered, scarred face was known to every merchant in the plaza.
"By the decree of Lord Gendry, Regent of Myr and the Narrow Sea," Brown Ben's voice cut through the lingering cheers, "the exiled Magisters who purchased this horde are named traitors to the realm. Their names will be nailed to every square and alleyway. Their properties are forfeit. Their honors are ash."
"Death to the traitors!" the crowd chanted, the bloodlust fully taking hold.
Gendry lowered his hammer and turned to his captains. The theater was over; the butchery was about to begin.
"Deploy the forces," Gendry ordered softly.
Grey Worm gave a sharp nod, moving to marshal the Free Army. The Unsullied and the freedmen infantry marched out in perfect, silent unison, flowing toward the plains beyond the gates. They would form the static shield wall—the immovable anvil upon which the Dothraki would break their momentum.
Gendry pulled on his heavy helm, the visor casting his eyes into deep shadow. He looked toward his heavy cavalry. The infantry was merely the bait. The true killing blow—the hammer—would be forged in steel and riding on warhorses.