After two weeks of joyful respite, on the third week, King Kay Khosrow reached the ancient, formidable fortress of Gang-Dezh. From high atop its ramparts floated the sounds of pipes and harps. The Shah of Iran smiled at the enemy's revelry and rode around the perimeter of the majestic battlements, pondering the fickle turn of destiny. Looking upon the incredible craftsmanship, Khosrow observed that such a castle had not been raised merely out of dread for war, but as a peaceful, celestial paradise. Yet it was here that Afrasiab—who had poured the blood of the innocent Siyavash and ignited an unquenchable fire of vengeance across the earth—now cowered.
Turning to Rostam the Elephant-Bodied, Kay Khosrow said, 'O Champion, behold with a clear mind what the Lord of the World has wrought for us in battle! The source of evil who brought darkness upon the world has grown old and wretched, fleeing before us to take refuge in this stronghold. Were I not to offer endless thanks to Yazdan for this triumph, I should not deserve to live through three watches of the night; for all victory and sovereign power flow from Him who created the sun and the moon.'
Gang-Dezh was naturally impregnable: on one side rose a sheer, towering mountain that shielded it from assault, while on the other ran a crystal-clear river that gladdened the soul. Kay Khosrow ordered the army to pitch their pavilions across the plain. For seven leagues, the earth was swallowed by the Iranian host. Rostam raised his royal pavilion on the right flank; Fariborz, son of Kay Kavus, stationed his warhorns and massive drums on the left; and Gudarz secured the third side of the fortress.
When night descended, a thunderous roar of horns, trumpets, and war-drums erupted from both sides, as if splitting the very dome of heaven and making the earth tremble. At dawn, as the rising sun tore away the night's dark mantle, Kay Khosrow mounted his pitch-black steed and inspected the battle lines. Speaking once more with Rostam, he declared: 'My hope is that Afrasiab shall never sleep peacefully again. Whether captured alive or slain, he shall feel the blade of the God-fearing. We must strike swiftly to tear down these ramparts and cast their stone and dust into the river before his distant allies can march to his aid.'
Kay Khosrow recalled the solemn oath of his grandfather Kay Kavus—that this blood-feud for Siyavash would pass down like a freshly leafed tree from father to son, untouched by the fear of death, until justice was served. Hearing their king's righteous determination, the grandees and champions showered Kay Khosrow with blessings, hailing him as the holy, victorious sovereign of Iran.