The battle had transitioned from a struggle for survival into a systematic harvest of the Myrish host. Gendry's wedge-formation had acted as a lightning rod, grounding the mercenary momentum and allowing the Wolf Pack to shatter the enemy center. With Bloodbeard's headless corpse cooling in the mud, the Company of the Cat—once the terror of the Disputed Lands—dissolved into a rabble of fleeing men.
"Wolf Pack! Freedom!" the liberated slaves roared, their voices echoing off the sharpened stakes of the fireweed estates. Gendry did not let them savor the victory for long; he reorganized his knights for a second, sweeping charge that cleared the field from the estate's gates to the treeline. Iron Fist and Grey Wolf led the infantry in a relentless pursuit, ensuring that no Myrish officer escaped to regroup.
As the dust began to settle, Gendry rode to meet the leadership of the Golden Company. They were a vision of ostentatious wealth, their armor etched with gold and their necks heavy with thick gold chains. Every man bore gold arm rings, one for each year of service, their value enough to ransom a lesser lord.
Standing at the front of their column were the pikes. They were topped with gilded skulls that seemed to mock the carnage below. Among them, the massive, two-headed skull of Maelys the Monstrous stood out, a grim reminder of the Blackfyre lineage.
"A magnificent victory, Commander," Homeless Harry Strickland said, his voice lacks the iron of a warrior but possesses the smoothness of a banker. He looked at Gendry with a mixture of awe and trepidation, as if standing before a blade that had just been pulled from the forge.
"I appreciate the 'gift' of your presence, Harry," Gendry replied, his voice dry. He wiped Bloodbeard's blood from his hammer. "Though I suspect if the wind had blown toward Myr, you'd be celebrating in my Wolf's Den instead of on this hill."
"We are a company of ten thousand," Gorys Edoryan, the Volantene treasurer, interjected smoothly. "We do not 'skirmish' lightly. We represent a significant investment."
"And what is that investment looking for?" Gendry asked. "The Iron Throne? You talk of home, but your home is guarded by Jon Snow, Barristan the Bold, and the Kingslayer. It is backed by the wealth of the Rock and the grain of the Reach. You are chasing a ghost from a hundred years ago."
"We have friends in the Reach," Franklyn Flowers countered, his jaw tightening. "The Tyrells are not as beloved as they think. And the Stormlands remember the true blood."
"The true blood is on this field," Gendry said, his eyes narrowing. "You want to go home? Then help me swallow the Disputed Lands. Help me take Myr, and when the time comes, I will be the one who provides the ships to cross the Narrow Sea. But for today, stay out of my way."
After the Golden Company departed, the remnants of the Myrish host began to crawl forward to beg for mercy. The Spear Company, eight hundred heavy horsemen, lowered their banners and swore fealty to the Wolf King. Gendry accepted them immediately, knowing he needed their mobility to sweep the remaining Myrish estates.
Then came the Second Sons.
Brown Ben Plumm knelt in the mud, his sword laid across Gendry's boots. He looked like everyone's favorite uncle—warm, wrinkled, and full of stories—but Gendry saw the predatory hunger hidden behind those dark, Dothraki-slanted eyes.
"The Second Sons are yours, Liberator," Ben said, his smile never reaching his eyes. "I've a drop of Targaryen blood in me, they say. Maybe that's why I know a king when I see one."
"I know your smile, Ben," Gendry said, leaning down from his saddle. "It's a mask. You're a man who smells the wind and moves before the rain falls. You're greedy, you're cautious, and you're perfectly willing to sell me the moment a better offer comes along."
Brown Ben's face paled, the "kindly uncle" facade flickering for a brief second.
"But I don't need your loyalty," Gendry continued. "I need your talent for survival. Take your four hundred men and go back to Myr. Tell the Magisters you escaped the slaughter. Be my eyes. Be my 'inner response'. When the Wolf Pack arrives at the gates of the 'Three Sisters', you will be the one who turns the key."
"And if I don't?" Ben asked quietly.
"Then there are no more stories for you, Ben. Only the hammer."
"There are old sellswords and bold sellswords," Brown Ben mused, glancing at the mangled remains of Bloodbeard. "But there are no old, bold sellswords. I'll be your key, Wolf King. I'd rather be on the side that's doing the hammering."
As the Second Sons turned back toward the coast, Gendry looked out over the smoldering fields. The Disputed Lands were open, and the scent of the sea was finally calling him toward the walls of Myr.