The battlefield of Myr shook beneath the thunder of hooves and the clash of steel. Smoke and dust swirled on the wind, mixing with the sharp scent of blood. In the midst of the chaos, Khal Jhaqo roared like a maddened beast.
"Coward! Milk-drinker! Hiding in an iron shell—come out and die!"
His black eyes blazed with fury. Armor and stone walls were foreign things to the Dothraki. They believed strength lay bare—skin against steel, blood against blood. To them, armor was the clothing of cowards.
Jhaqo's arakh sliced through the air, silver steel flashing like a streak of moonlight. The bells woven through his thick braid jingled wildly—each bell a mark of a victory he had earned in single combat. The weapon in his hand was half-sword, half-scythe, its curved edge designed to carve flesh with horrifying ease.
He charged at Gendry with the force of a desert storm.
"Die, coward!"
The arakh crashed down, sparks flaring as Gendry blocked with his heavy warhammer. The blow shuddered up his armored arms, but the thick black scale plate absorbed the worst of the impact.
Gendry neither flinched nor stepped back.
He stood firm—like an anvil planted in the heart of the battlefield.
---
The Clash of the Khals and the Smith
Around them, the battle raged.
The Wolf Pack Knights, heavy and disciplined, pressed forward behind their longspears. Gilo Reha, commander of the Spear Company, slashed his longsword in precise, deadly arcs. The silent specialists who guarded Gendry engaged Jhaqo's Blood Riders—men as fierce and loyal as the Khal's own arms.
Grey Wolf and Steel Fist led the infantry forward, carving through the disordered ranks of the Dothraki. The screams of dying horses and men mixed with the thundering advance of armored cavalry.
This was not the endless grass sea of Essos.
This was Myr.
Here, the Dothraki met a different kind of enemy—armored, trained, unyielding.
Gendry's armor was the finest of them all: black scale plate, reinforced at every vulnerable joint, complete with gorget, vambraces, and helm. His warhammer—a massive thing of iron and steel—gleamed with the promise of death.
The Dothraki knew how to split flesh, tear tendons, and open throats.
But splitting armor was another matter entirely.
---
Strength vs Speed
Khal Jhaqo circled him, arakh slicing, stabbing, and hacking with relentless speed. The blade drew silver arcs through the air, each swing aiming for the gaps—armpits, knees, the small of the back.
But Gendry's armor had been forged perfectly. The joints overlapped, leaving no weakness to exploit.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Each furious strike ricocheted off the black scales, ringing uselessly.
Jhaqo snarled, baring his teeth.
"Hiding behind iron! Coward! Fight like a man!"
Gendry answered coldly,
"My strength. My armor. My rules."
He swung his warhammer in a brutal arc. Even when Jhaqo managed to dodge, the wind pressure alone forced the Khal to stagger. When the hammer did land—on arm, rib, or shoulder—it shattered flesh and bone alike.
Jhaqo's muscles burned. He felt his grip tremble.
Every clash made the bones in his arms ache.
Gendry, on the other hand, felt stronger with every heartbeat.
This was the difference between a man in the prime of his youth and a Khal past forty—experience was valuable, but strength decayed with age. Jhaqo's body could not keep pace with his fury.
---
Panic in the Khal's Eyes
"This can't be happening…" Jhaqo whispered, voice trembling.
He had fought thousands of battles, cut down hundreds of warriors. He had ridden the Dothraki Sea with the confidence of a man born to conquer.
But this iron-clad giant refused to break.
Refused to bleed.
Refused to fall.
Jhaqo realized—perhaps for the first time—what it felt like to face a stronger foe.
Dothraki culture despised weakness.
Their Khals could not retreat.
Their screams and songs celebrated glorious death.
Yet Jhaqo's heart pounded with fear.
"Take off your armor and duel me properly!" he yelled, desperation cracking his voice.
Gendry's response was a hammer blow aimed directly at his chest.
---
The Khal Begins to Falter
Jhaqo barely dodged.
Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes.
His swings slowed.
His curses grew shorter.
At last, his arakh struck Gendry's vambrace with a dull clang.
And that was the moment Gendry had been waiting for.
"Now."
He pivoted and unleashed a crushing hammer strike into Jhaqo's shoulder.
The bone shattered instantly.
"AAARGH—!"
Jhaqo's scream tore through the battlefield. His arm dropped uselessly to his side.
"And the second."
Gendry reversed his grip and hammered down on the Khal's skull.
The impact was devastating.
Jhaqo's head burst like an overripe melon—blood, bone, and brain matter splattering across the muddy ground.
The Khal collapsed like a lifeless eel.
Silence fell for a heartbeat.
Then—
"The Khal is dead!"
"The Khal is dead!"
His Blood Riders screamed with rage, charging in a frenzy to avenge him. But they were disorganized—grief clouding their judgment.
Gilo Reha intercepted one Blood Rider, blades clashing before Gilo severed the warrior's throat in a single clean stroke.
Longspear hurled his javelin with lethal accuracy, piercing the heart of the second.
With their Khal gone, the Blood Riders joined him in death—as tradition demanded.
---
The Collapse of the Khalasar
Once the Khal fell, the entire Khalasar began to quake.
The Dothraki despised weak leaders.
Without a Khal, a Khalasar was just a scattering of tribes.
The minor Khals—Jhaqo's "ko"—looked at the exploding battlefield, the advancing armored cavalry, the rising dust clouds, and realized:
There was no victory here.
They gathered what remained of their tribes and fled.
The proud Dothraki formation dissolved like wet sand, turning from an army into a mass of frightened riders fleeing for their lives.
Trumpets blared across the walls of Myr.
War drums thundered triumphantly.
"Long live Myr!"
"Long live Commander Gendry!"
"Long live the Commander-in-Chief!"
The people of Myr roared in celebration, their cheers rolling across the battlefield like waves.
---
The Ambush Springs to Life
But the battle was not yet fully won.
Gendry had planned far ahead.
As the fleeing Dothraki galloped toward the open plains, two hidden ambushes activated like sprung traps.
The first to appear was the Red Viper.
The Dornish prince rode a tall, charcoal-black stallion with a fiery mane. His armor—layered copper plates—glittered under the sun. He raised a long black-ash spear, and the sigil of House Martell flashed bright on the shield strapped behind him.
"Spear of the Sun! Ride!"
The Dornish light cavalry surged after him.
Their lighter armor gave them speed, and their skill with longbows and javelins made short work of scattering Dothraki remnants.
To them, hunting scattered horsemen was routine business.
From the opposite flank, Brown Ben and the Second Sons charged.
Their objective was not the warriors—it was the vulnerable rear of the Khalasar.
Women, children, supplies—
All the things Dothraki normally took from others were now taken from them.
With the Khal dead, the Khalasar dissolved into chaos.
---
A Victory Echoes Across Myr
Gendry raised his hammer high, spurring his horse into pursuit.
The battlefield spread out before him—broken, bloody, victorious.
The Wolf Pack Knights advanced like a moving wall of iron.
The Spear Company rained death in disciplined ranks.
The Free Army swept through fleeing riders with ruthless precision.
The people of Myr watched from their walls, ecstatic.
Their home had been threatened with slaughter.
But now—
the Khal was dead.
His Blood Riders dead.
His Khalasar broken.
A new legend had been written on the fields of Myr.
One forged not in prophecy—
but in steel, sweat, and the strength of a smith who had become a commander.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)