"By the Old Gods and the New."
"Warrior, protect us."
"Lady of Spears, grant us steel."
The camp was a hum of desperate whispers. Before the first light of battle, the men sought refuge in whatever gods they had carried across the sea. The Wolf Pack veterans knelt before makeshift weirwoods or small icons of the Seven; the Unsullied stood in silent meditation to the Lady of Spears; and the Free Army, many of whom had only known the dark, looked to the flickering braziers of R'hllor or the shrines of the Lysene Love Goddess.
Gendry stood atop the newly heightened walls of the Wolf's Den, his eyes fixed on the horizon. A black tide of iron and horse was flowing toward them, a sea of mercenaries fueled by Myrish gold and a shared hatred of the "Liberator."
The second Myrish offensive was a frantic, hysterical affair. The Magisters had set aside their internal bickering to hire every blade for sale in the Disputed Lands: the Company of the Cat, the Spear Company, the Second Sons, and a dozen smaller bands of freelance killers.
"Our skirmishers did what they could," Pretty Boy said, leaning on the stone battlements. "They harassed the supply lines and thinned the ranks, but a host this size doesn't stop for gnats. They want a head-on collision."
"Then we give it to them," Gendry said.
"The sea is no safer," Longspear added. "The Myrmen have twenty warships blocking the coast, backed by the Tyroshi fleet. They've closed the throat of the peninsula. They're trying to starve us out while the sellswords batter the gates."
"The coast is too long and the water too shallow for a perfect blockade," Gendry noted, though his jaw tightened. "But the陆-based threat is faster. And deadlier."
"Watch for the pale horse, Commander," Maester Qyburn whispered. "The Myrmen have been known to catapult plague-ridden corpses into besieged cities. The Bloody Flux can win a war faster than any sword."
"Bloodbeard isn't that patient," Gendry replied. "He wants to sack this estate and take our gold before the Second Sons can steal his share. He won't wait for a plague to bloom."
Gendry had prepared the estate for exactly this moment. He had abandoned the outer farms, pulling the freedmen behind the sharpened stakes and deep moats of the Wolf's Den. Large scorpions and light catapults were mounted on the towers, their iron-tipped bolts aimed at the heart of the approaching mass.
Below the wall, the "Hammer" was forming. Four hundred elite knights—the core of the Wolf Pack—sat atop their destriers in heavy plate. Behind them, two thousand Free Army infantry stood in a disciplined block, their spears leveled.
Gendry adjusted his iron mask. Through the slits, he saw the banners of the enemy. The Great Cat of the Company of the Cat held the center, flanked by the Broken Sword of the Second Sons and the spears of the Spear Company.
"Six thousand," Gendry analyzed. "But the heart of it is Bloodbeard. The Second Sons are poorly equipped, exiles and failures for the most part. And the Spear Company? They're riders. They'll bolt the moment the tide turns."
"When I lead the charge, the Den is yours," Gendry said to Pretty Boy.
"I will hold it, or die in the gatehouse," the treasurer promised.
Across the field, a roar erupted from the mercenary line.
Bloodbeard, the captain of the Company of the Cat, was a man who looked like he had been forged in a slaughterhouse. He was massive, his voice like the combined shouting of a dozen men, and his braided red beard was stiff with old blood and grease.
"Damned whelp!" Bloodbeard cursed, looking at the setting sun. "The slave-skirmishers cost us half the day. We should have been throwing stones by noon."
He spat into the mud and wiped his longsword. "The boy has been hoarding gold from seven estates. The Wolf's Den is full of it. When the wall falls, every man who draws blood gets a double share!"
Mero, the "Titan's Bastard," let out a jagged laugh. The captain of the Second Sons was a towering Braavosi with pale green eyes and a red-gold beard that reached his waist. His reputation was so foul that most Free Cities refused to hire him, leaving his company hungry and desperate.
"He's stubborn, this Butter King," Mero noted, his fingers dancing on the hilt of his Braavosi blade. "He could have bought us off with a few chests of silver. Now, he'll pay with his life."
"Don't get greedy, Titan's Bastard," Bloodbeard grunted. "Watch the Spear Company. Those high-born bastards will ride for the hills the moment they see a splintered shield. Keep your men on their flank."
The Company of the Cat was primarily infantry—nearly three thousand strong—while the Second Sons and the Spear Company provided the cavalry. Behind them, the Myrish engineers were finalizing the assembly of three massive trebuchets.
"Bring them up!" Bloodbeard roared. "Bring up the Myrish whores! Let's see how the Wolf likes our gifts!"
The three engines—named Wolfslayer, Lady of Myr, and Pride of Myr—groaned as their counterweights were filled. With a series of thunderous cracks, the first volley of stones was launched.
Gendry watched from the walls as a massive boulder smashed into the outer palisade, sending a spray of splinters and dirt into the air.
"I have to take those out," Gendry thought.
He climbed into the saddle of the black sand steed Oberyn had given him. He wore his black scale mail, his Myrish silk cloak fluttering behind him like a wing of night. His spiked warhammer was slung across his back, and an arakh hung at his hip.
Behind him, four hundred knights sat in absolute, terrifying silence.
The grey wolf flag was raised. Gendry raised his hammer.
"Open the gates."