The eastern sky bled a pale, bruised purple as dawn broke over the walls of Myr. High above the gates, the grey-and-white banners of the roaring wolf snapped fiercely in the wind.
Gendry stood upon the battlements, his gauntleted hands resting on the cold stone. Beside him stood Prince Oberyn, Brown Ben Plumm, Qyburn, and Dick Fletch. From their vantage point, the true scale of the Dothraki threat was laid bare. A sea of riders stretched to the horizon, the rising sun catching the bronze medallions and oiled braids of the screamers.
Out in the Bay of Myr, Morosh's galleys cut through the choppy waters. The Dothraki feared the "poison water," and the presence of heavy warships bristling with scorpions ensured the horde could not flank the city from the shoreline.
Gendry had spent the night weaving a layered defense. The Free Army and the Unsullied formed the immovable anvil outside the gates. Longbowmen lined the parapets, while heavy trebuchets sat in the plazas just behind the walls.
The horse lords were creatures of brutal habit. Their scouts always rode ahead, their vanguards guarded the flanks, and after the slaughter, the heavy-axed jaqqa rhan would walk the field to take the heads of the dying.
Outside the western gates, the ground had been cleared of hovels and barricades. Now, it was occupied by a wall of steel and flesh. Grey Worm stood at the absolute front of the vanguard. He struck the butt of his spear against his heavy round shield.
Clang!
Clang!
The Unsullied answered, a rhythmic beating of iron against wood that rolled across the plains. Myrish smiths had reinforced their armor, replacing their traditional light leather with heavy scale and steel half-helms topped with deadly spikes. Though there were only a few dozen true Unsullied, they formed the indestructible core. Behind them stood the Wolf Pack infantry and the Free Army—freedmen encased in chainmail and plate. They lacked the absolute fearlessness of Astapor's finest, but they held their shields steady, their faces set in grim lines.
"Spear Goddess," Grey Worm murmured softly, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Bless our Liberator, and grant us the strength of stone."
A mile away, the earth began to shudder. The crops of rye and lentils were trampled into the mud as thousands of Dothraki outriders let out a deafening, unified shriek. They rode like a gathering storm cloud, their long braids adorned with tiny bells that jingled a chilling, chaotic rhythm.
Through his Myrish far-eye, Gendry located the warlord. "Khal Jhezkahn."
The Khal sat atop a massive black stallion. He was a broad-shouldered man nearing forty, his skin the color of polished copper. His braid hung past his thighs, heavy with gold bells that spoke of countless victories, though silver now threaded through his dark hair.
"Seven thousand screamers in the vanguard alone," Oberyn noted, his voice a low purr.
"He has brought his entire strength to bear," Gendry observed, collapsing the far-eye. "The Tyroshi gold was too sweet. He intends to take it all."
Gendry had massed his own heavy cavalry in reserve: the Wolf Pack knights, the lances of the Free Army, and the hundred Dornish light horsemen brought by the Red Viper. The Second Sons remained behind the walls; their sellsword pragmatism made them unreliable in a suicidal frontal charge.
"Let us see who draws first blood from these savages," Oberyn smiled, stepping back from the parapet. His squire handed him an eight-foot spear. The shaft was thick, smooth ash wood, topped with two feet of leaf-shaped steel. "I had this forged for a different kind of beast. A much larger one."
"The Mountain," Gendry said, not taking his eyes off the field. He had heard the tales of Gregor Clegane. A man near eight feet tall, thirty stone of pure muscle, who swung a two-handed greatsword with one arm and wore plate so thick no ordinary man could lift it.
"Indeed. For a giant like Clegane, reach is everything," Oberyn said, testing the weapon's balance. "But for a man like that, I will not let the end come quickly."
Confidence is a dangerous armor, Gendry thought, though he said nothing. Against a monster like the Mountain, one mistake was fatal.
A sudden, harsh roar went up from the Dothraki lines. Khal Jhezkahn had halted his main force just out of bowshot.
"Run!"
"Run!"
A group of slaves was thrust forward from the Dothraki vanguard. They were young boys, driven toward the Myrish lines under the crack of leather whips. They shared the copper skin and almond eyes of their captors, but their faces were flatter, their hair shorn to the scalp.
"The Haesh Rakhi," Brown Ben Plumm spat over the wall. "Lamb Men. Lhazareen shepherds from the lands southeast of Vaes Dothrak. The horse lords view them as nothing more than meat."
The boys sprinted across the broken ground, their bare feet tearing on rocks and roots. But human legs could not outrun Dothraki coursers. Screamers detached from the main host, whooping and laughing as they rode down the fleeing children. The crack of whips split the air, tearing strips of flesh from the boys' backs. Those who stumbled were trampled.
Other riders drew their short bows, treating the crawling, bleeding children as target practice. One by one, the Lamb Men fell, their bodies bristling with arrows, dying in the dirt mere hundreds of yards from the Myrish shields.
Gendry's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. The violence was performative, designed to shatter the nerves of the freedmen holding the line.
"Hold your fire," Gendry commanded, his voice cold. "Let them have their sport. The cavalry does not ride until I give the word."
Dick Fletch scowled, his fingers twitching on his bowstring. "I could take three of them from here, Commander. They claim to be the greatest archers in the world. I'd like to dispute that."
"Patience, Fletch," Gendry said.
Down on the plains, Khal Jhezkahn surveyed the Myrish lines. The slaughter of the Lamb Men had failed to break the infantry's discipline. More confusing still, the Dothraki scouts had reported that the vaunted Unsullied numbered only in the dozens, not the thousands that had broken Khal Temmo at Qohor.
Seeing the meager line of spiked helms, Jhezkahn drew his arakh. He raised it high, the golden belt around his waist flashing in the morning sun.
The horde surged forward.
Thousands of screamers kicked their horses into a gallop, a terrifying wave of muscle, painted leather, and gleaming steel rushing toward the western gate.
"Now!" Gendry roared.
Thwack! Thwack!
The Myrish trebuchets unleashed their payload. Boulders the size of anvils arched over the city walls, plunging into the Dothraki charge. Horses and riders were pulverized upon impact, bodies exploding into red mist. But the horde did not slow. They flowed around the craters, screaming curses at the "cowards in iron suits."
Grey Worm and the Iron Fist braced their lines. The massive shields locked together, a solid wall of oak and iron.
But the true defense lay beneath the Dothraki hooves.
As the vanguard closed the final distance, their horses suddenly lost their footing. Gendry had ordered the earth directly in front of the shield wall saturated with thick, volatile Myrish pitch. The dry plains had been turned into a slick, treacherous mire.
Lead horses slipped, their legs giving out from under them. Riders were pitched forward into the dirt. The momentum of the massive charge became its own enemy, as the rear ranks crashed into the fallen vanguard, creating a chaotic, crushing pileup of screaming men and broken horses right before the unyielding spears of the Unsullied.
Gendry watched the carnage unfold, his hand resting on the hilt of his warhammer. The anvil had held. Now, he waited for the perfect moment to drop the hammer.