The iron-shod hooves of dozens of horses struck the hills east of Myr in a steady, rhythmic cadence, sending small stones tumbling down the slopes. Dust floated behind the riders in a long plume, trailing them like a pale, wavering tail. Across the river that cut through the rolling terrain, the distant horizon shimmered with movement.
A vast sea of Dothraki riders was gathering.
From the vantage point Gendry shared with Prince Oberyn Martell and their scouts, the enormous Khalasar looked like living waves—dark, ceaseless, rippling across the grasslands as they made their way toward the river to water their horses. The Dothraki had already crossed the Rhoyne and now pressed deeper west, moving across another river without hesitation. Once they watered their horses and reorganized, their march upon Myr would resume.
Gendry raised a Myr-made telescope to his eye. Myr was famous for its precision tools—glass lenses, intricate bronze fittings, and delicate devices that scholars and sailors alike coveted. The telescope collapsed into itself like a bronze serpent, no larger than a dagger when folded, but when extended it brought clarity to distant chaos.
Through the lenses, Gendry observed the formation with meticulous care.
The Screaming Warriors rode in the vanguard, bare-chested, long hair braided with bells that chimed ominously as they rode. Behind them came the elderly, the young, and the non-combatants of the Khalasar. Their loose formation still moved fast across open land, but its size slowed the warriors slightly.
If they weren't weighed down by their people, they would reach Myr today, Gendry thought.
Beside him, the Red Viper of Dorne peered into the distance. His expression was half-amused, half-concerned. Oberyn was a veteran of conflicts throughout the Disputed Lands—yet even he seemed wary of a full Khalasar.
"The Dothraki are not like traditional nomads," Gendry said, lowering the telescope. "Most nomads face famine, disease, or harsh seasons. But the Dothraki Sea gives them too much strength. After they destroyed the Ghiscari cities and took the land, they've had more wealth and livestock than any horse tribe deserves."
Their warriors were the proof. Tall. Muscular. Hardened. Their lack of armor was not from poverty—only tradition and confidence.
"By noon tomorrow," Gendry predicted, "they'll be at Myr's gates."
Prince Oberyn nodded. "If they weren't slowed by the khalasar, they'd arrive today. At full speed, the screamers can cross a plain like fire."
The Dornish cavalry behind Oberyn were dressed less heavily than Gendry's own knights. They wore silk robes that fluttered behind them, their shirts layered with copper scales that gleamed like coins in the dawn sun. Where Gendry's knights wore dented but sturdy plate armor, the Dornish preferred speed and maneuverability.
The two leaders had come with ten mounted scouts each to observe the Dothraki movement before battle. Even in the face of thousands, both remained calm. They knew their advantages—better horses, superior equipment, and knowledge of the terrain where their traps were set.
A carefully hidden ambush waited not far from this ridge, one that would hammer the Dothraki once they charged.
"We'll focus on their cavalry formations," Gendry said. "Observe how they group, how they break, and where they turn. There's always a pattern to nomadic riders."
"With luck, we find a weak point," Oberyn said.
"Intelligence says this Khalasar belongs to Khal Jhezkahn," Gendry continued.
Oberyn snorted. "A slippery one. Comes to Qohor for tribute every few years. Takes gold, spares the city, rides off again. I suppose Tyrosh paid him well last time—too well. Now he wants a new city to squeeze."
"And Drogo?" Gendry asked. "He still leads the largest Khalasar?"
"Yes," Oberyn said. "Khal Drogo commands the mightiest force in the Dothraki Sea. Over forty thousand screamers. Undefeated."
"And Jhezkahn?"
"Two thousand screamers at most," Oberyn calculated. "His whole khalasar… perhaps seven thousand, if the weak and young are counted."
"One khalasar crushed," Gendry said, "and the rest will hesitate before crossing the river."
"Agreed," the Red Viper said, spurring his horse forward slightly.
Behind them, the Arrow Maker—one of the finest archers alive—sniffed as he watched the distant riders.
"Your archery is excellent now," he grumbled at Gendry. "Your commander didn't need to send me to scout. But if the Dothraki want a taste of my arrows, I won't deny them."
Oberyn laughed. "Pity not to show off, old man."
The Arrow Maker adjusted the awl-tipped arrows in his quiver. The tips could pierce plate armor, let alone bare chests and leather straps. Mounted archers prized recurve bows, and his was a beautiful yew bow reinforced with bone.
The three men compared observations.
"The Dothraki have one great strength," Gendry said. "Their horsemanship is unmatched. They have numbers, agility, and fear neither death nor pain."
"And weaknesses?" Oberyn asked.
"Two. They wear no real armor. And their siege warfare is primitive."
"Then we use the old Qohor strategy," Oberyn said. "Form a solid defensive line. Let them break themselves against it."
The Arrow Maker frowned. "Qohor had three thousand Unsullied. We have… free folk. Former slaves. They won't stand like Unsullied."
"No," Gendry said, "but we have Myr's walls. First the Wolf Pack will hold the line. They only need to withstand the first few impacts. After that, the cavalry will strike."
He tapped his helm. "The shield is necessary—but the hammer decides the war."
Before they could discuss further, movement across the river caught their attention.
A small group of Dothraki scouts had spotted them.
Dozens of screamers broke off from the main khalasar and charged, the thunder of hooves rolling across the water like a storm. Their faces were fierce, bronzed, and eager for blood. They raised arakhs and bows, shouting war cries that echoed between the hills.
"They're coming," Gendry said calmly.
The Arrow Maker didn't wait. "Good. I've been itching to stretch my fingers."
He drew his great bow. His first shot landed cleanly—an arrow slicing through a screamer's chest as if through cloth. The man toppled from his horse, dead before he hit the ground.
Gendry switched to his recurve bow, better suited for horseback. His arrow struck another rider in the throat. Blood sprayed as the warrior tumbled, choking.
Prince Oberyn fired from the saddle as well. His posture was elegant even mid-gallop, and his arrows flew in swift, deadly pairs.
The Dothraki were surprised—rarely had Free Cities warriors dared to fight them in the open. Most merchants fell to their knees or shut their gates.
But this was no merchant caravan.
The Wolf Pack Knights beside Gendry braced their shields, while the Dornish riders moved lightly, avoiding incoming arrows. The Dothraki arrows bounced harmlessly off plate armor—whereas every Dornish and Myrish arrow that found a target brought down a rider.
The remaining screamers slowed, hesitating. Their numbers were dwindling fast.
Gendry raised his warhammer and shouted, voice ringing like steel struck on an anvil:
"I am the Magistrate of Myr!"
The Dothraki faltered.
Nearly all the scouts had fallen. The few survivors turned their horses around, too outnumbered to attempt another charge. They watched in disbelief as Gendry, the Red Viper, and their scouts rode away unscathed—armor glinting, banners snapping in the wind, and confidence radiating from their retreating forms.
It was a small engagement, but it sent a message across the plains:
Myr would not kneel.
And Gendry Baratheon was no merchant lord hiding behind walls.
He was steel, fire, and fury on horseback.
Tomorrow at noon, when the Khalasar arrived, the real battle would begin.
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