Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

5th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Daario Naharis, Northern Myrish Heartland. 

"We found 'em," Mero, the Captain of the Second Sons, came to their weathered camp with a posse of his sellswords. 

"Who did you find?" Daario Naharis asked, stroking his painted beard. "Was it another group of rebels? Or perhaps some of the fools that aid them?"

"I found both," Mero said, and a savage smile spread across his scarred face, reminding Daario of a crimson ape from the Summer Isles with his long, bushy, gold-red beard. "My scouts traced a group of fleeing slaves towards the Wolfpack. They're out in the open on the road to Pentos."

Daario was one of the three captains of the Second Sons, a company hired by the Grand Conclave of Myr to suppress the slave uprising in the Ashen Plains, the expanse of land between the Free City, the Crystal Lake and the River of Myrth. It had another name, now forgotten–after a Dothraki Khal named Jhoro had set everything ablaze two centuries prior, the people had called it the Ashen Plains or the Grey Expanse. Of course, that did not mean it remained uninhabited, for the fertile land suffered little and quickly recovered, attracting even more people than before. 

A year prior, the plains were flush with farms, villas, small villages, pastures, and quarries from end to end.

Now, the whole place was filled with death and rebelling slaves.

"Take a piss in the shrubbery, and you'll hit a corpse or a hiding slave," his men oft japed. 

Myr employed thirteen companies across the Ashen Plains to quell the uprising. It wasn't as easy as they expected. The slaves were as numerous as the mosquitos at the Rhoyne. They hid amidst the fields and mines, dug in barrows, and even pretended to be obedient before stabbing you in the back. Most rebels had a spear or a bludgeon–of proper make instead of hoes, sickles, and rakes, which meant someone was pouring coin into the so-called uprising.

Worse, despite having little martial training, the slaves were well-coordinated, hinting at the existence of hidden masterminds and plotters. With coin and leadership, the chaotic and disunited revolts turned into a war–at least those outside the walls of Myr.

What was an easy contract had turned into an ugly slog of slaughter and desperation. Oh, the Storm Crows would still finish it–while looting everything the Ashen Plains had to offer under the easy pretext of aiding the slaves. The casualties suffered only meant everyone would have a greater share of the plunder.

At the northernmost side of the Ashen Plains, the Storm Crows operated with the Maiden's Men and the Second Sons. The former was led by Yven Irontooth, a bowlegged, stocky man hailing from Ibb, while the latter was by Mero, the Titan's Bastard, a greedy man with an unsavoury reputation.

Their strength was just over twenty-three hundred men combined, over half lancers, and the rest mounted foot and marksmen.

Even though they were somewhat disjointed in command, the three companies were happy enough to team up for any fighting. It prevented the chance of being ganged up by the paltry sellswords helping the rebels, like some of the more confident companies at the start of the turmoil.

That did not mean that the loot would be split evenly, of course.

So before they mustered to chase down the Wolfpack, Daario met up with Prendahl na Grazen and Sallor the Bald, the other two captains of the Stormcrows, and men just as greedy as he was, if more proud. 

"Mero will doubtlessly try to take all the plunder from the Wolfpack for himself," Sallor grunted. "We have to send a group to claim their supplies first."

Prendahl scoffed. "How much wealth can two hundred sellswords boast?"

On days like this, Daario wondered how such lackwits had climbed to the position of captain. But he knew how–with low cunning, brutish cruelty, and undeniable skill at arms.

"Word is the Lyseni are paying them a hefty amount of coin," he supplied. "Then, whoever is commanding the rebelling slaves is paying a second time for gold and jewellery looted from their masters."

After half an hour of squabbling and posturing, they agreed that Sallor would be the one to go around the battle and take a hundred cavalry to raid the enemy camp for plunder.

Of course, they didn't trust him. Nothing stopped him from taking the stuff for himself and fleeing, so Sallor angrily promised to leave his concubines and personal wealth behind.

An hour later, the three sellsword companies were finally on the march, rushing northwards lest the Wolfpack slip away again.

"Where's Sallor?" Mero asked after half an hour. "The bald bastard is not one to miss a battle."

"Back at camp, with his pants around his ankles, shitting his guts out," Daario laughed. "Fool drank too much of the sweetened qahwah with milk." It was one of those exotic drinks from the Island of Jhala of the Summer Isles, a bittersweet draught from dark beans roasted and ground to dust before being boiled. Daario had tried it once; it made you feel awake but also loosened your bowels too much for his taste.

Mero nodded tightly, but Naharis knew the sellsword had not trusted a word.

After another hour of fast-paced riding, they finally saw the group in the distance.

"There they are. I see no lancers with them!" Yven Irontooth, clad in a hefty byrnie, raised his curved longsword, hollering. "Charge men, charge!"

The men fanned out into a wedge, and Daario spurred his steed.

But as they gained momentum, he realised something. The wolf banner–it was wrong.

No, many things were wrong.

The Wolfpack had a brown howling wolf on red, not a grey beast running on white. The banner fluttering in the wind above looked far more imposing, and the wolf dashing in the snow seemed far different, too, fiercer somehow.

And their foes were far more numerous, at least thrice more than the two hundred and fifty that the Wolfpack had cobbled together. Better armoured, too. It was rare to see so much steel on one man, let alone hundreds.

It didn't matter, though. While Daario knew numbers mattered, six or seven hundred men would still be nothing against their two thousand. He would be wary if they were Unsullied, but none of the men sported the pointed bronze caps the eunuchs always wore. More foes meant they had a bigger war chest and more corpses to plunder!

Their charge approached, but their foes did not break. 

Daario couldn't help but feel a tinge of apprehension. The line of armoured footmen did not look daunted at the tide of cavalry bearing down on them, even though they hid behind their shields. He was close enough to see the whites in their eyes; those eyes did not have fear or worry as expected when faced with a cavalry charge, only defiance and grim determination. 

A weak hail of arrows and slinging stones spluttered from behind them, and he caught an arrow with his shield.

Fifty yards, thirty, and suddenly, a bone-chilling howl erupted from behind the lines, and all their foes kneeled on the ground, picking up long-shafted pikes hidden among the tall grass. When the butt of the spears were all braced against the ground, ice chilled his veins.

This was a trap.

Daario's instincts screamed for him to continue charging, for there was no way he could steer or stop the charge, not with hundreds of horsemen behind him.

His steed, which had so far proven to be trusty and well-trained, had flinched horribly at the sudden sinister howl. Daario tried to urge it on, hoping he could find a gap in the spear wall barely a dozen feet from them, but it was not to be. At the very last moment, his horse slammed its forelegs to the ground in a vain attempt to stop, unwittingly exposing its neck and belly to the pikes. He couldn't even leap off his steed, for the charging horsemen behind would trample him into meat paste.

The inevitable collision came, and everything grew chaotic. He felt his horse die beneath his legs as it impaled itself into a pike, and the momentum flung Daario into the enemy lines.

The feeling of weightlessness dazed him as the world spun around, and even his sword slipped from his grasp. The air was choked with cries of agony, pained neighing and the sounds of men and horses dying.

The expected pain from hitting the ground or the foes never came.

The last thing Daario saw was a pair of chilly grey eyes and coldness as a blade of frost plunged into his chest as if his ringmail were made of straw.

***

The Red Wake's Squire

Gendry was a stubborn young man, tall and muscled from all his work in the smithy. But that day in King's Landing, he had met one more stubborn than him and an entire head taller. A veritable giant of a man, a mountain of muscle, had come to Master Tobho's smithy for a complete set of heavy armour and a mighty halberd.

Many warriors came to Master Tobho because he was the best mastersmith in King's Landing and the finest in Westeros. A few of the masters from the city's blacksmithing guild disputed that over the years, but all had been humbled, for Tobho Mott had learned the secrets of moulding steel in the distant Qohor, the City of Sorcerers, and his make was second only to the long-gone spellsmiths of the Freehold. 

Not only could he make the finest arms and armour but also infuse the steel with colour at no expense of sharpness and durability.

From every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, knights and lords flocked to Master Tobho's smithy, desiring the finest armaments. Many turned away at the hefty prices, for the best work in the Seven Kingdoms was worth a lord's ransom; even more would turn away at the waiting time, for only the highest lords and royalty could afford Master Tobho's expedient rates.

Then, one day, things had changed for Gendry during the Northern Tourney. Aside from being nearly as tall as the Mountain, the giant was even wider at the shoulders than him. His brown hair framed a face that looked hewn from a block of stone, with two beady eyes staring down at him under furrowed brows. It was the first time one of those customers paid attention to himself.

"I want you to become my squire," the Red Wake Walder had stated, his voice rumbling. It was not a question. It was not a proposal but a demand.

"I refuse," Gendry had thought him fooling around. The man was a Northman, not even a knight. Why would he want a squire?

The Giant of Winterfell had not turned away, then. No, he laughed at Gendry's face; he honestly thought it was thunder from the booming sound.

"I refuse your refusal. I will leave here with you as my squire, or not at all. Boy, I can see it in you. You have the make of a great warrior, and I will bring it out."

It turned out that the Lord Hand's powerful retainer could not be kicked out of Master Mott's shop even by the Gold Cloaks. He had not been breaking any laws or disturbing anyone but Gendry. None of the city watchmen wanted to tangle with the Lord Hand's personal guard and banner bearer; not even the young tall guard who looked suspiciously similar to him desired to annoy the Red Wake. The man patted his shoulder in defeat and wished him luck.

On the third day, Master Tobho came to Gendry and told him, "You should take his offer, boy. The man can turn you into a great warrior."

"But I want to become a master smith like you! I don't care about knighthood or serving arrogant lords," he had whispered, defeated. "Why would a man-at-arms want a squire anyway?"

The Master Smith sighed, placing a calloused hand on Gendry's shoulder. "Lad, the Red Wake might not be a Ser, but he's better than most and also the champion of the Grand Melee, besting hundreds of knights. I know you're stubborn, but you're of age within three moons, and there isn't much I can teach you that won't come with practice. Listen to some wisdom from an old man like me. It's better to know how to fight and not need it than to need to fight and not know how."

The words were laden with sorrow, and the young apprentice listened. 

And so, an unwilling Gendry had accepted. He had thought Master Tobho had been demanding, but Red Wake Walder showed the young man hell.

For over half a year, he awoke bruised and went to sleep with bruises over his previous bruises and all his muscles sore. Each night, he felt more tired than after hammering at a piece of ruddy red steel for hours. Alas, Gendry had shown little talent in most weapons, except for the war maul. He was good at swinging hammers, even if it was at flesh, wood, and armour, instead of hot pieces of steel and iron.

Escaping had crossed his mind, even in this foreign, unfamiliar land full of slavers, but that would mean Gendry would have to leave his new friend behind. Jory Cassel's squire–the gregarious and cheery Edric Wells, a spindly young man a year younger and a head shorter than him, always sporting an optimistic smile.

"Welcome to the family," Edric had welcomed him upon joining Lord Stark's retinue. It had not been an empty platitude either, for the Stark guardsmen and household started treating Gendry as one of their own, and any thoughts about leaving fled his mind.

So, he put his all into training to prove himself worthy. 

Alas, even a normal maul felt light in his hand, so Gendry had made himself a heavier one in a village smithy they passed after Pentos. Heavy enough that his peers struggled to lift it, but it felt comfortable in his palm.

"Some might laugh at you for wielding a heavier weapon," the Red Wake had told him. The Giant of Winterfell rarely spoke, so in the rare cases he did, Gendry listened carefully. "But pay them no heed. Should you have the strength to wield it with swiftness, few would ever rival you. I was on the Trident that day the king won his crown. 'The Demon of the Trident', they called him, for he used a monstrous warhammer to smash over two dozen knights easily before besting the Silver Prince."

He then forced Gendry to eat more and train even harder than he thought was possible. His heavy war maul was never to leave his grasp, and Walder had ordered him to even hug it to sleep!

Life on the road was hard, and training was harder, as his palms blistered until they bled the way they had not since he was a green apprentice smith. Yet, it wasn't as terrible as he had feared, for his hands were already rough from years of hammering. At the start, Gendry struggled with swinging a fifteen-pound maul for hours upon end, but little by little, it no longer felt as tiring. 

The Northern squires treated him as their equal–Errenford, Stout, Burley, Ironsmith, and many more. True, they were younger and smaller than Gendry, but there was none of the arrogance he had seen in the highborn in King's Landing, although they all clung to their pride. Edric was their unofficial leader and spokesman, and he always ensured they got the best rations and whatever treats they could scrounge from their journey.

Being one of two squires to Lord Stark's Captain had many benefits.

Being Red Wake's squire meant something to those Northmen. It took him some time, but Gendry realised it. It meant he was in service to Lord Stark himself. Even Prince Tommen knew him by name and politely asked for help balancing his training blade or fixing his dented armour. It surprised him to learn he was among the few proper smiths in the army; the Essosi hardly counted. In fact, one of the younger women, a pretty maid with almond-shaped eyes and copper skin, begged him in broken common to take her young brother as an apprentice!

How could he when he wasn't a master himself?

Gendry was still shocked that the golden-haired princeling did not mind mingling with the lower rungs of commoners like himself. Even the freed slaves who had joined as servants under Vayon Poole fascinated him with their foreign looks, tongues, and tales of the distant places they hailed from. Most had been just tillers, hunters, or shepherds, but quite a few knew a craft and hailed from some town or the other, some even as far as Yi Ti, which was said to be on the other side of the world!

Of course, that was when the young prince was not punished by Lord Stark with even more work. Seeing a royal slug down with the lowborn and the servants at the end of the day without a single complaint for moons made Gendry like the golden-haired princeling more.

If this was the make of highlords and kings, it was no wonder many would follow them to the death.

Yet despite all the training as a squire and the fact that he had his shield, helmet, arming doublet, and ringmail, Red Wake did not let Gendry join the battles and prove his mettle. The bull-horn helmet was of his own make, just like the maul, but the other three were parting gifts from Master Mott himself. "You've more than earned this with your work here." 

And now they had gone to battle with some sellswords, and Gendry remained behind with the Prince and other Squires as Vayon Poole and his small army of servants began setting camp.

He and Edric Wells were responsible for preventing the prince from sneaking away into the battle again.

"No sneaking away, Your Highness," Edric chortled with a smile. "I pray you have not forgotten the many weeks of latrine duty?"

"I have not." The prince slightly shuddered as his nose wrinkled, yet Gendry understood–he, too, had to help dig the latrines duty occasionally. Lord Stark was insistent on always digging latrine pits every night they camped. 

"But the scouts said the sellswords are two thousand strong and outnumber Lord Stark almost two to one," Tommen objected, his tanned face filled with worry. What was once a pale, milky skin had turned a healthy hue of bronze under the unrelenting Essosi sun. "They will need every hand to fight!"

Gendry saw he still carried his sling. Even the two pouches with the pebbles, just the right size for slinging, were hung upon the prince's belt.

"And all hands to fight are already sent." Gendry motioned at the surrounding camp. It was Vayon, the steward, along with the other stewards, the household servants, and the freed slaves who had joined them. And the younger squires like him, of course. "Lord Stark knows what he's doing."

"Aye," Edric bobbed his head. "There's no need to fret. The scouts saw the foes approaching on time, and Lord Stark has never lost a battle, even against far better foes."

Tommen's eyes turned despondent, and he sat on a rock, his shoulders sagging.

"It's just… I want to prove myself," he sighed, running his hands over his shoulder-length hair–the prince had declined to have it cut, opting to mimic the shaggy Northmen's hairstyles. "All my life, I've been the spare, the useless, fat young brother that will have nothing. Lord Stark was the first man to care for me, and I just want to make him proud."

Gendry understood that desire. It had been the same for him with Master Tobho, the desire to prove that he was no longer a snot-nosed boy who knew nothing and couldn't even hammer a piece of iron into a proper shape. He wanted Walder to acknowledge him, to prove he was an able warrior. 

There were other, slightly more selfish reasons–to grab a piece of glory for himself. Many things came with fame, glory, and knighthood–he had heard from the other squires. Knights were rich, many doors were opened for knights forever barred for smallfolk, and ladies loved Sers, according to Ethan Stout.

It didn't sound all that bad.

But unlike Gendry at six and ten, the Prince was still a scarcely ten-year-old boy, if a rather tall one and very good with a sword and a sling. He had heard the Northmen speak out of earshot from Tommen–how the golden-haired boy was monstrously talented with a sword in hand, the next Dragonknight or Sword of the Morning, but it would not do to praise him lest he grew arrogant like his elder brother. So poor Tommen had been squeezed out for all his worth in training without a single word of encouragement, just like Gendry, who, unlike the Prince, was barely good with the maul.

"You're still young, Prince Tommen," Edric said, patting Tommen's shoulder. "There's plenty of time to prove yourself, and a royal never lacks for chances. I've heard patience and knowing when to act is a skill more valuable than gold."

"And where did you hear that?" Gendry asked curiously. It sounded far more serious and wise than his friend would say.

"From Lord Stark, of course," Wells laughed. "I overheard him talking to Lord Robb in the training yard back home. The Stark of Winterfell seldom speaks, but when he does, it's usually with wisdom." 

Tommen sighed. "I suppose some rest won't hurt. Though I still can't figure out why the sellswords would attack us on sight without even a parley."

"Very few men who sell their swords have even a shred of honour," Edric shrugged. "The only thing they respect is coin. Besides, Essos is a different, savage land, unlike the Seven Kingdoms."

Gendry couldn't help but agree. He had seen too many men and women with dead eyes, shackled and treated like cattle. He had seen countless remains of pillaged villages and enough corpses to make even someone raised in Fleabottom like him baulk. Life was almost worthless here, in this lawless land called Essos. He had seen too many men act like brigands and reavers, even those who ruled.

It made him appreciate the peace back home. Yes, he had never left King's Landing, but he had heard tales from plenty of knights, travellers, and merchants who had. The roads were safe unless there was war, and those who dared break the King's Peace were swiftly hunted down. The Northmen even claimed a maiden in her name-day suit could walk barefoot from one end of the North to the other unmolested. 

It sounded fantastical, for even after Balon Swann took the Gold Cloaks, King's Landing couldn't boast a similar feat. A naked maiden wandering the streets would be despoiled a third of the way by some rogue, consequences be damned. Gendry would have thought the Northmen were jesting, but none of them had laughed or mocked him; no, they all genuinely believed it.

Soon, the sun reached its zenith, blaring down on them with its hot caresses as they waited in the camp, feeling somewhat uneasy. Edric seemed to find a nick on his blade and looked for a whetstone to sharpen it.

"I don't like this," Tommen muttered, hugging Brightroar's scabbard and gazing at the cloudy sky. Unlike the half-rotten thing falling apart from before, the lionhead pommel and handle were replaced, and so was the sheath. It was one of his finest works, along with the bull-horned helmet. "We're yet to approach Myr, yet there's trouble already. If these sellswords are employed by the Grand Conclave of Myr, we'll be denied a way back home once more."

"Surely, it's a mistake?" Gendry frowned. "Why would a Free City attack Lord Stark? He has never made any enemies amongst the Essosi, right?"

Edric shrugged, sheathing his polished sword and turning to him. "Why do men need a reason to do anything here? They take slaves because they can. It wouldn't surprise me if they attacked Lord Stark because they thought he was an easy target. Did you forget the half a dozen dragonsteel blades our group carries? None of the wielders shy away from showing off, either. The Myrish are also fighting a slave uprising, and many sellswords act as bandits when there's a lull in the fighting."

…That did not abate Gendry's worries; even the Prince started fretting, palming his sling. While there was little doubt Lord Stark would win, it would be a bitter victory if it denied them a way home again.

Then, Mallo dropped onto the ground as if sleeping, but his copper-skinned face was scrunched up with concentration as his ear was sealed to the road as if listening to the worms below. He always did this when they stopped camp, claiming it helped him hear horsemen coming from afar and avoid ambushes. 

But this time, Mallo leapt up as if his arse was on fire and dashed towards Tommen.

"Golden prince," he said. The former slave's words weren't as awkward as when he first joined, and his speech flowed better. "Enemy's coming."

"What?" Tommen tilted his head. "How do you know it's not our men returning?"

"Smaller numbers, different direction," Mallo waved towards the East. "No more than a hundred horsemen."

"An ambush, then." Edric's face grew grim. "Or a raiding party."

"Mallo thinks so too," the former slave nodded gravely, palming his steel belt. It was a queer thing that had caught Gendry's eye, hewn from flexible steel that could turn into a whip-like blade when drawn.

"We must fight," The Prince declared.

"But all the warriors went with Lord Stark," Gendry pointed out almost hysterically as he felt a lump grow at the back of his throat. Was he about to have his first battle? He had begged the Red Wake to let him fight for moons, but his courage had fled now that he got his wish.

"We're here, are we not?" Tommen Baratheon's face hardened, and he stood up, his tiny fists balled. 

"If we flee or hide, the horses can run us down one by one. We only need to hold out until Lord Stark returns." He explained swiftly before climbing atop the tall boulder nearby and taking a deep breath. "We're under attack! To arms!"

The camp fell into chaos then. Things would have gone far worse without Lord Stark's steward, who got everyone to calm down quickly.

"Form up around your Prince. Don't run around like headless chickens, you fools!" Gone was the genial and bookish steward, and in his place was yet another warrior as he smacked the blunt side of his sword on a servant's backside for being slow. "Bring the spears and anything to use as shields, even the bloody washboards!"

The spare spears were handed out with Mallo and Vayon Poole's help while the squires clad themselves in their meagre armour. Gendry, Ethan, and Jeor Ironsmith were the oldest, biggest, and best trained–three young squires as green as summer grass, as Walder would call them.

"Steward Vayon," Tommen urgently pointed at the wagons and carts around the camp–the things they had looted from the Dothraki camp. "Help me arrange them in a tight circle to block the horse charge."

The next few minutes were chaotic, and Gendry himself helped, pulling and pushing around carts and wagons, for there was no time to bring over the horses and mules. Hopefully, they could recover them after the chaos of battle.

Uneasy men, women, and greybeards that had never held arms had a pike shoved into their hands—each one without even an ounce of training, commanded by a boy of barely ten. Yet the defensive circle of carts gave them a slight sense of safety.

"These men have no courage," Mallo whispered to the prince, but Gendry heard him and grimaced. "Not a single warrior here. They will break at first strong foe."

Tommen, clad in a small padded jacket, climbed on the high boulder in the middle of the encirclement again and bellowed, "We need not win a battle. Nobody would expect us to fight veteran warriors. All we need to do is defend the gaps and not let the horsemen pass until Lord Stark returns!"

It wasn't the most inspirational speech before battle, especially with the prince's squeaky voice, but Gendry could see it in the servant's gazes. They were afraid but had a taste of freedom and were willing to fight for it.

But was the will to fight enough?

And then came the horsemen from the east, shaped like a wedge. They weren't innumerable as Gendry feared, but the group was still larger than fifty—more than they could hold out against. Unlike the Westerosi knights and men-at-arms, most only had a sword or axe and a shield, about half had helmets, and a third–a hauberk, even less had heavier armour.

Yet the raiders' warcries were the real deal–those were men with violence in their hearts, eager for blood and plunder. 

The familiar whirl was something Gendry had heard a thousand times–Tommen's sling. As the horsemen approached, one holding a bow fell off his horse. By a stroke of luck, the foe had only the one horse archer who had fallen first, so the prince's sling continued hurling rocks with impunity, though only two more struck true.

What he would do to have a single crossbow among their numbers–he had shot his fair share of them in King's Landing, and he knew how devastating they could be against such meagre armour.

The sellswords arrived then, circling around the wall of wagons, looking for a gap, but all they found were scattered servants poking with their spears from the narrow openings.

A hoarse, angry voice echoed from their leader–a bald, scarred man clad in slightly better armour than the rest. 

"He claims that he's Sallor, a Captain of the Stormcrows," Mallo translated. "If we surrender, we'll be spared."

Tommen scoffed from above and loaded another round pebble in his sling. "Tell them to surrender or face the full wrath of the North."

"I like you, lion-stag prince," Mallo laughed and yelled something that sounded outraged and insulting, along with a few rude gestures with his fingers, especially judging by the storm of curses from the other side of the wagons.

The sellswords circled the wagons, looking for weakness again, while Gendry's palms grew sweaty as his gloves as he squeezed the war maul with one hand and lugged a hefty shield with the other. Blood roared in his ears, the ringmail weighed upon his shoulders, and the maul as heavy as a mountain in his grasp.

Tommen stopped slinging stones, too, for just as the wagons and carts protected them, they impaired his vision and allowed the sellswords to hide from his sling.

"They're dismounting!" The warning came in time, and the sellswords split into two groups, rushing the smaller carts. Yet Tommen seemed to use his high vantage point to keep yelling out commands, "Ethan Stout, take ten men to the south cart. Mallo and twelve the next gap. Edric Wells, two dozen to the northeast-"

With some confusion, the servants obeyed, if not as quickly. It wasn't before long that steel clashed with steel, wood, and flesh, and the sounds of battle and death echoed around Gendry, and everything turned chaotic.

He had yet to swing his maul a single time, yet sweat stung at his eyes, and his breathing turned laboured as heat began to rise behind his navel, and his mind turned blank. A gaunt sellsword tried to slip beneath the wagons near him, and Gendry instinctively lashed out with his maul, missing and smashing at the wood instead.

The man poked at his neck with a growl, and Gendry barely managed to lift his shield, catching the sword thrust. The next swing of his maul didn't miss, and the man's head caved in with a sickly crunch as he dropped down lifelessly, blood, bone, and brain exploding over his shoulder in a shower of gore. 

The blood in his ears roared even louder, deafening everything as Gendry stopped, his head pulsing heavily, and gazed at the fallen corpse. Bits of bone, blood, and brain mingled as the air was choked with a heavy, metallic scent that made his stomach churn.

He had done this. Gendry had taken a life. His hands shook like they were dunked in ice, his temples throbbed harder as if someone was hammering from inside his skull, and his breath had grown heavy as if he had run all day. His shield and maul slumped from his slackened fingers as their weight felt unbearable. The overwhelming stench of death mingled the air, then, as Walder had warned him–in death, bowels turn loose. 

As Gendry sat there dazed, another sellsword slipped through the gap, but he saw him too late. 

An axe rushed towards his neck. Gendry desperately tried to jerk out of the way and raise his shield, but his hand was empty. It was as if the world slowed down then, and all he could do was helplessly watch as the cold edge rushed towards his bare neck.

Gendry realised he was going to die. 

And then the sellsword's eye exploded in a shower of blood and brain-bits, and the axe jerked from its course, slamming at his ringmail painfully before bouncing off.

Gods, he had almost joined the Stranger.

"GENDRY! WAKE UP!" Tommen's cry shook him from his stupor, and he turned to see the golden-haired prince angrily flinging with his sling.

Gendry, hands shaking, picked up his shield and hammer, even if his body felt faint and his knees strained as he forced himself back on his feet. The brush with the Stranger was closer than he had been comfortable with. He had been a hair's breadth away from death.

A glance around the wagons revealed a slaughter. Dozens of servants were dying, but there was nowhere to escape. Mallo was whipping out his belt sword, a cloud of blood surrounding the former slave as he moved with cat-like grace, and both friend and foe alike stayed away from him.

Then his gaze fell on Edric Wells, his friend, his brother in all but blood, and Gendry's heart froze.

The Stromcrow captain had climbed over the cart and forced his way into the circle, followed by a dozen sellswords, but his friend and the servants had met them in a brutal melee. A few raiders lay dead on the ground, but many more of their own were also bleeding out. 

Gendry had eyes only for his friend as his head rolled off into the mud, and his decapitated body fell like a bag of turnips as the bald, scarred face of a man clad in steel stood atop his corpse, laughing at the trembling servants.

The roar of blood rushing to his brain reached a crescendo until something snapped… and Gendry saw red.

Suddenly, the war maul that was as heavy as a mountain disappeared as if someone had replaced it with a feather.

His legs stopped trembling, and the heat in his gut turned into a raging inferno. 

Someone was roaring with fury, then. A distant part of his brain realised the savage bull-like bellow was coming from his lungs, but it didn't matter.

His legs were already carrying him towards Edric's killer.

Some sellsword got in his way, but the maul lashed out as if it had a mind of its own, and a chest caved in with a wet, clinking crunch as the ringmail did nothing against his fury, its owner flung away like some ragdoll. 

Crimson crept into the world as everything slowed, and all Gendry could hear was the sound of his blood thundering in his ears, war drums in his head, and thunder booming far in the distance as if a storm was forming.

It felt both foreign and intimate, like the whisper of his dead mother. 

It felt like he was hammering in the forge, but only under his hammer were the flesh of foes and the melody of steel was replaced by the song of death.

The bald captain who had slain his friend raised his shield to meet the maul, but the strength of its blow turned it to splinters. Even the hand that held it was crushed like a twig, and someone was screaming in agony in the distance. It didn't matter, for the maul was already soaring again, and the man's breastplate caved in, but the roaring continued!

Gendry continued swinging, his arms not tiring, his lungs gulping air to roar it into a fury. He swung and bashed and swung again, seeking to silence the beating war drum in his head, craving for silence!

Everything began to blur together until a deafening howl awoke him from his rage. 

***

Eddard Stark

His wariness paid off when his scouts reported a significant number of mounted sellswords rushing their way. One of the companies was the Second Sons, where his maternal grandfather had served once. Ned knew what to expect based on his grandfather's derisive words–cutthroat men with no honour or loyalty but to gold or slaughter. Rodrik Stark had joined in order to study new Essosi tactics in case of another war. Yet, the Northman found himself quickly climbing to become their leader due to how mediocre their strategic abilities proved to be, primarily due to a lack of self-discipline and an excess of greed.

The sellswords were by no means terrible warriors, but a motley gathering of warriors was far from a well-organised army.

Ned's trap worked spectacularly, and the sellswords broke rank when Zolo struck at their rear with his five hundred screamers. 

Even the battle saw only three dead and two dozen wounded, most of them from soaking the initial charge. The sellswords had foolishly underestimated him or perhaps greatly overestimated their abilities. They couldn't give chase, however, for the damned sellswords had sent someone to sneak at their camp.

His heart was heavy as he rode as swiftly as his steed allowed, but the situation was not as dire as expected.

The losses were not as bad as they had feared–only two squires, two dozen servants and twice as many wounded. If not for Winter's warning in his mind, they could have returned to base camp too late.

It was tragic, but Tommen's quick-thinking and clever arrangement of the wagons into an impromptu wall had saved them far more than anything else could. Ned lamented the losses but could do nothing against a foe that outnumbered them. He needed every one of his warriors, for those were not some soft city guards he faced but hardened veterans of many conflicts.

He could not have afforded to leave a single man to guard the non-combatants. It was his fault for overestimating the sellswords and believing they would have any lick of honour or common sense. Zolo had caught a similar group slinking around westward, but Ned had not expected a second one to sneak around unnoticed from the other side. Blinded by greed, they would naturally go for the weak and defenceless camp followers and the army's war chest and supplies, with no care for their main force's demise.

Yet, there was a silver lining to everything. It was not only the young prince who had proven himself today. Mallo was covered with blood from head to toe, smiling toothily, having slain over a dozen with his odd whip-like belt-sword.

Walder's squire was like a tired bull with his horned helmet, even though they found him crying over Edric Wells' decapitated corpse, surrounded by a score of fallen sellswords, who looked broken, for lack of a better word.

Heads had been shattered like watermelons, chests caved in, limbs smashed, shields broken–the young man who Ned suspected to be one of Robert's bastards had fallen into a battle fury. It was a savage visage that reminded him of his friend at the Trident. The boy's mother was probably from Crackclaw Point or had a sliver of Clansmen blood for it to run so strong. His father, Rickard, once mentioned that all First Men had the battle fury, but the Baratheons and the Durrandons before them had the best chance of mastering it.

"He fought like a man possessed," Tommen had confirmed later, face solemn. "Smashing through the surging sellswords like a demon. Each swing of the maul felled a man."

While done out of fury, such a brave deed deserved a fitting reward. The camp could have fallen without his battle rage that plugged the gap, and everyone could have been killed–including Tommen. It would have been a disaster. 

"Gendry of King's Landing," Ned had approached the young man with his blade drawn, the frost blade as pristine as always, for blood never clung to it for long, and gently placed the flat side over his right shoulder. "Do you swear to the gods to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect the weak, the women and the children?"

"…I do." Gendry sobbed out, his head lowered and his fists tightly clenching his knees.

"Do you vow to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, provided they do not ask for service of you that might bring you dishonour?"

"I do." The lad bit through gritted teeth as tears continued to flow, his eyes staring at his friend where Jory was tending to his squire's corpse. The young Cassel looked angry, no doubt blaming himself for something he had no control over.

"Do you swear to fight bravely when needed and do other such tasks as are laid upon you, however humble or dangerous they may be, to not allow the pursuit for glory and honour blind you to your duties?"

"I do!" Gendry finally looked up at him, and Ned nodded at the resolve and determination blazing in those oh-so-familiar stormy blue eyes. He was already taking care of one of his friend's sons, so why not another?

'I have seen your memories,' the mocking voice gave him pause. 'You stubbornly declined the Old Falcon's offer for knighthood in your youth–as was proper, but some of the Andal rabble might question the boy's right to his spurs now. Unless… you wish to take up a crown?'

Neither of those problems had even entered his mind. He had seen a young man prove his worth and valour, and his first thought was to reward him. The Stark of Winterfell had the right to anoint Barrowknights–but not the Andal ones, unless he had a knighthood of his own. But even then, it mattered little, for he could simply enfeoff Gendry as a landed knight or a masterly House of the North. Lackwits and fools had risen for nobility for doing less.

'I have no thirst for the ruinous trappings of power. As for the Andals… let all who question the boy's staunch character and deeds come to me, then.

"Then, arise as a knight of the Seven Kingdoms," Ned helped the young man up, for his knees were shivering. This had been his first battle, and he knew how those went. "Mourn your friend, but do not hold fury in your heart, for he is avenged."

Gendry wiped his tears with the hem of his dirty sleeve, only making his face dirtier, "But… why attack us?"

"That's what I want to find out," Eddard Stark muttered. He almost regretted slaughtering all the sellswords who had failed to flee. He would have had all of them chased to the last if not for the echoing bellows from Robert's bastard that hinted at peril at camp–Winter had heard him from where he was with him at the front, and Ned had swiftly sent him to investigate. There were good spoils of battle there–including two more Valyrian Steel blades, but Ned couldn't bring himself to care about plunder right now. 

Thankfully, Zolo had a few captives who had surrendered from the group of Second Sons, including their vice-captain, and Wylis had brought a gaoler's son from White Harbour with his retinue. The man knew how to extract information from prisoners swiftly.

'It's not hard to ascertain,' Theon whispered again. 'The fools doubtlessly thought you easy prey. Or on the side of the slavers. You didn't want to take Pentos, but you might be forced to take Myr instead.'

Ned could almost imagine the bloody grin on his ancestor's face as he cackled madly, the lust from the previous battle doing nothing to satiate him.

***

6th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Ned had suspected trouble would follow on their road to the Free City of Myr, but he hated it when his hunch was correct.

"So they were indeed hired by Myr," Ser Wylis Manderly groaned. 

The rest of his bannermen had gathered around, including Tommen—or Tommen the Bold, Tommen the Daring, as the men began to call him—for his page had made a name for himself in the last battle. Even though he lacked Robert's colouring, he had his daring and thirst for battle in spades. Even Ned would admit that the defensive wagon tactic was clever and effective, and taking down seven more sellswords in battle was no mean feat.

He was not the only one with a new name. Gendry was dubbed "The Breaker" for his uncanny ability to smash through steel, flesh, wood, and bone in his fury. Unlike his half-brother, the former smith had turned sullen because he did not feel ready to be a knight, but Walder promised to up his training even more. Just because he was a knight did not mean his squire duties were gone.

"This is Ben Plumm, and he's the only one from the prisoners who knew anything. Spoke after trying to bargain for his freedom," the torturer nodded to a shivering man on the bloodstained rack in the corner of the command tent. The captive seemed to have been lucky, with all of his limbs intact and no signs of torture aside from the fear in his eyes. The other corpses were not as fortunate, as shrieks of agony had echoed into the hour of the ghost last night. 

"Born and bred in Essos, a fruit that has fallen far from the Plumm tree. He claims a cloaked man arrived at the camp, warning Mero of the Second Sons about a new, very rich sellsword company with a wolf banner coming to help the Myrish rebels."

With the help of Winter, Eddard could smell the truthfulness of the words. Or at least that's what the sellsword believed to be the truth.

"Very well," the Lord of Winterfell nodded. "Let him go, then."

"Just like that?" Arlon Knott frowned. "These damned savages cannot be trusted. He will doubtlessly go running back to his masters and tell what he has seen here."

"He spoke truthfully for his life and freedom, so he has earned it," Ned inclined his head. "But strip him naked and take his thumbs and tongue before sending him on his way."

A warrior without thumbs could never hold a sword or a spear, and a man without a tongue could not speak.

Ben Plumm started to splutter for mercy as Red Wake dragged him by the scruff to fulfil his order. They ignored the squeals that sounded almost like a pig in a butchery.

Damon Dustin frowned. "This drivel doesn't make sense! We have not sold our loyalty like some sellsword scum."

"We've been framed," Eddard Stark growled. "Someone wants to borrow a knife to get rid of us. Or deny us a way back home, for I doubt the Myrish would let us in their city to use their harbour after slaughtering their sellswords."

"The curs who fled would no doubt spread the word of us joining the rebelling slaves," Rogar Wull spat.

A storm of curses erupted as grim realisation sank in. Ned hated it. 

He loathed that feeling! It was as if an invisible hand was trying to prevent him from getting home, blocking his way forward. 

What if his family was in peril while he was stranded here? 

What if his sons died?

Eddard Stark balled his fists. 

'If they're barring your way, ride them down, fool. Crush them all until nobody dares to oppose you.'

The clamour died slowly out, giving way to grim silence as everyone looked at him as if Ned had a solution for all their problems. Oh, how he wished he did.

"What shall we do now, My Lord?" Jory inquired, his countenance still solemn from the loss of his squire. "We don't have the numbers to storm a city as big as Myr."

"Can we help the slaves?" Tommen asked, shoulder slumped. The battle had taken a toll on the young boy, especially the bloody visage of all the fallen–including some of his newly made friends, who he had helped bury. "They are fighting for their freedom, a cause most righteous. The Gods, old and new, abhor slavery."

Eddard Stark was tired. He just wanted to leave this terrible land and go home. See Winterfell, kiss his wife, hold his son, hug his daughters. He wanted everything to be right in the world, but that was a young man's dream. There was a war awaiting him at home, too.

Tommen was still young and naive if kind-hearted. Helping the slaves here was not his duty, nor was fighting the Magisters of Myr. Freeing the slaves did not mean the freedmen would not turn to old practices afterwards, for that was the only thing they had known before.

It was not as simple as winning a battle or even a war. Freeing the slaves required change.

It was easier said than done, for the change had to come from within. The change had to start in men's minds and hearts, change in the way the lands were ruled, and change in men's laws. Such change was demanding; it demanded time to ripen, wits to look out for problems down the road, and an iron spine to weather through all the woes that would doubtlessly arise. 

Once Tommen walked down that road, endless battles would await him; from Myr to Yi Ti, slavery was rampant, and one battle would lead to the next, and before they knew it, they would find themselves halfway to Slaver's Bay.

'Fool!' The whisper was filled with derision, even more than usual. 'Whoever is pulling the strings thinks you and the North are weak. That you can be pushed around as they wish. The best way to deal with plotters and schemers is to smash their game and flip their board. Your desire for peace is confused with weakness. Drown them in blood, and they will come to you, begging for mercy.'

Eddard Stark hated that he agreed with his ancestor, for once. He saw no other way out–the nearest port they could use to sail back home would be over a thousand miles away–Braavos. Every easily accessible harbour, large and small, on the Narrow Sea, was bereft of any vessel that could cross it, and trade was paralysed. The flames of war had spread far, and only the small fishing boats were left behind.

Even negotiating with the Myrish meant little, for they were amidst war. Worse, the rich, fat, slave-owning magisters were without honour, and their word could not be trusted.

Gods, he was tired of being denied a way back home. He was tired of trying to be calm and reasonable as everything went teats up out of greed and ambition. He was tired of following the laws of men when everyone else bent and broke them over as they deemed fit.

Ned only wanted to sail back home, away from this accursed land, yet this one simple desire was denied to him. 

Taking a deep breath, Eddard Stark straightened up. "We're going to scour the Ashen Plains."

"To what end, my lord?" Damon Dustin asked, yet his eyes glowed in excitement—an act mirrored by many of his retainers.

The Lord of Winterfell hated war. But for good or bad, he had some talent for it, and his men were eager for it. He knew what had to be done, no matter how tasteless. He could ride northward, nearly a thousand miles, to Braavos to rush back home, but there was no guarantee the damned Braavosi would let him pass or for him to even find their damned city. He was done latching onto vain hopes, taking distant chances for nought.

It was time to grab destiny with his own two hands, whether he liked it or not. 

If appealing to reason did not work, he would let his sword do the talking. Sure, volunteers could be sent to brave the Narrow Sea and let the Old Lion of Lannister know of his current predicament, but Eddard Stark would not leave his fate on such fleeting chances.

"Slaughter every single sellsword company working for Myr," his voice thickened with fury. At the damned slavers, at the hidden schemer, at the foolish Essosi, at the greedy sellswords for forcing him to turn into a savage. "We shall loot and burn their fields, mines, and manses, free their slaves, and starve the city out. We'll burn and kill and slay until the Grand Conclave of Myr squeals in pain and loss and comes begging us to stop. And if they don't, I'll sack the Free City of Myr and burn it to the damned ground if I have to!"

The cheer was deafening. The Dothraki and Northmen hollered as one as swords, bows, axes, and spears arose in the air in jubilation, and even Winter woke up excited and joined in with his howls. Tommen's frown turned sad once the boy realised that helping the slaves was a road paved with blood and bones like any war.

***

7th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Victarion Greyjoy, Fair Isle

He was back at Fair Isle. Alas, there was no Stannis Baratheon to match wits and valour this time. Unlike the Ironmen, the golden lions and the other Greenlander Houses of the West had not fully rebuilt their fleets. Each Greenlander ship from Banefort to the Feastfires was torched, sunken, or taken. 

There was nobody to muster them either; their lords and sons had gone to fight with the old lion on the far side of Westeros, and the rest had perished fighting that Oakheart. A strong warrior tried and tested in battle.

Even The Young Wolf was proving his mettle, and Victarion would have gone further inland to fight him if not for Balon's orders.

"Scour their fleets so that fool Renly does not doubt our alliance," Balon had said. "Invest the Stark boy and the defences at the Westerlands' coast to attract their attention while the weddings occur on the Shield Isles and confuse the lion boy-king. But do not challenge the Young Wolf–his heavy lancers will crush us in the open. Take Fair Isle for ourselves; Renly promised that each keep taken would belong to those who win it." The last part was said mockingly with a derisive laugh. 

And so, the fledgling Lannister fleet had burned once more, this time giving a slightly better battle, even if the gates of Lannisport remained closed.

Victarion would miss his nephew and niece's wedding, but it was fine, for he was not one to sit and celebrate when fighting was to be done. Besides, Balon had promised to make him the lordship of Fair Isle after the war.

Faircastle even fell without a fight. The craven old Castellan surrendered when Victarion promised not to harm anyone inside. Looting, however, was a fair game. It made him both sad and angry, but he didn't beat anyone to death with his fists, as he promised. Unwilling to look at the cravens, he took the Lord's beautiful young wife as a salt wife and shipped the rest of the Castle's Household to the Greenlands' shore.

Perhaps he should stop offering surrender and instead demand a good fight. If they proved worthy adversaries, Victarion would let the surviving ones go. 

At least everything was going according to Balon's plan. The Reachmen would use Fair Isle as a resupplying point on the way to the North, and the Greenlanders of the West had no ships to thwart them, and Balon had allowed Harlaw and Volmark to raid Mallister's lands and Seagard for further distraction. 

Victarion would have loved to try his axe against Jason Mallister; the man killed his nephew nine years ago, and Rodrik had been a strong warrior. Alas, he would have to be satisfied with what the North offered. But even the Red Wake and the Mad Lance were gone, lost to the wretched Storm God. 

The alliance between the Greenlander king and Balon would be sealed today, even though some of the Drowned God's priests objected to his nephew taking a Greenlander woman for a Rock Wife.

With reluctant help from their brother Aeron, those voices were found and silenced for treason.

Soon, ships from the Reach would sail northwards, filled with warriors and zealots. The fools aimed at the hills, plains, and rivers, leaving the Wolfswood and Bear Isle ripe for the taking. 

"These lands are flush with plunder," Nute, his right hand, noted as he struggled to carry the sacks of gold coins and silver jewellery as Victarion sat in the Lord's chair in Faircastle's Great Hall. "We have looted more in a fortnight here than in the last five years. I don't understand why we must turn to the cold, dreary North instead of continuing to take all this undefended wealth that's just sitting here begging to be taken."

"Because the Lord Reaper of Pyke commands it," Victarion coldly pointed out–not feeling like explaining to his dimwitted second for the fifth time. "My brother's word is absolute."

***

In the year 401 After the Doom, also known as 299 After Aegon's Conquest, madness took the known world under the form of war. It had started small, with whispers of woes with the Temple of the Lord of Light and R'hllor's Red Priests losing their abilities to gleam the future from their fires. 

Yet the tensions grew as the moons turned, and word of the approaching doomsday approached, but not many believed in such tales.

Old, dark things stirred beyond the North's Wall that had even the House of Black and White growing restless but died with a whimper under the Night's Watch's iron boot. Word even arrived of problems in the cold Grey Waste from the Far East, but the Five Forts held strong against some fiendish enemy.

From Ibb to Myr, from Lorath to Volantis, nearly all of Essos was engulfed by the flames of war. After the crushing defeat of the Tiger Cloaks, The Golden Company under the infamous Sunset Knight Barristan Selmy had sieged the First Daughter of Valyria. For the first time in history, Volantis was under siege.

The devious Khal Drogo crushed the Red King Xi Tian and pillaged his way through the Golden Empire of Yi Ti.

Rumours of the Pentoshi stirring from the city of towers slowly crept into Braavos, and an envoy was sent to see if the Pentoshi were breaking the Treaty of Rylon.

While Myr and Tyrosh were busy with their woes and foolishness, Lys's seemingly effortless campaign to conquer the Stepstones was met with fierce resistance. Salladhor Saan's death in the cold Far North meant their safe trading route fell into pirates that did not favour Lys. It quickly became obvious that the disjointed, feuding pirates were not united or led by some self-proclaimed Prince of the Narrow Sea, but some other hand had involved itself in the bloody struggle.

In 299 AC, only the Dornish had the capability and the interest to meddle, even if they did not have a proper fleet. Then again, the nearest island of the Stepstones was a mere stone's throw away from their coast. 

But all of the woes in Essos paled before the brutality that unveiled itself at the Sunset Lands.

The trouble in the Dornish Marches and Dorne proper started small, like a quiet whimper, but wasn't as quickly quelled. 

The Siege of King's Landing also started quietly after the Tyroshi had torched the city's docks near the mouth of the Rush, and what remained was burned by the Reachmen. Renly took the opportunity to deal with all the now-homeless vagrants kicked out from the capital and consolidate the grasp on the rest of the Crownlands as Tywin Lannister was boxed inside the city. 

It was said that three out of ten had perished within a moon, as all the fighting and armies had turned the ripe Crownlands barren. All the surviving fighting-age males were promised revenge, new land, and a better future and shipped to the Mander, where the Reach's naval might was turned from fighting to transport. 

The divide between the Faith grew fiercer, and both claimants to the Iron Throne sought to suppress their side. While Regent Kevan Lannister not-so-secretly appointed the Septon in King's Landing, and all the dissent was quelled on the grounds of heresy and treason, Renly faced far more insidious problems.

The Rose Septon had gathered far more support and was backed by a significant part of the Most Devout. Victory on the field of battle had brought them a sense of righteous justice in their cause, and thus, many had flocked to the promises and preaching of the Septons and, of course, even more, joined for loot and plunder.

The Faith of the Seven was growing too quickly in influence and prestige; it was becoming too popular, and Renly couldn't afford any dissent within his ranks at such a crucial time in the war. So, he sent them away, along with the most zealous followers. Robb Stark's brutal victory on the Trident had reopened old wounds, for the Old Gods and the Seven had warred for millennia.

The next move was considered a strategic masterstroke, at least at the time. Not only were Renly's foes deceived, attracting their attention elsewhere and allowing him to make the first move, but he managed to send away the Rose Septon and his more than sizeable following, including the tens of thousands of vagrants dwelling in the heart of the Reach. 

It helped that Balon Greyjoy had a flair for theatrics as he joined the war on Renly Baratheon's side by scouring the coast of the Westerlands as the Iron Fleet slaughtered tens of thousands and captured many more as thralls within less than a moon. Troops and defenders had to be focused on the western shores of the Riverlands and the Westerlands.

What Robb Stark thought would be a swift campaign in the Westerlands turned into a slow slog as Oakheart had managed to retreat in good order with less than three thousand losses. With the possibility of being flanked by the Ironmen, the Young Wolf was forced to put out fire after fire and consolidate a kingdom that had gone past the brink of shattering…

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'