"A mace!"
"A suit of Blackscale Armor, without a helmet!" This was Gendry's loot from killing the Goldtooth Pirate. Plate armor and scale armor were the most expensive kinds of armor, so it was a decent prize.
"The bastard from Driftmark gave me two gold dragons, and Dunster, the Myrish captain, gave me fifty gold ship coins. With the loose silver and copper, that should be enough to live on for a long time!" Gendry looked over his money. Myrish coins were flat and oval, stamped with a ship.
"And then there are the gifts: the telescope Dunster gave me, a tapestry from another passenger, a little spice, a carving in expensive wood, and so on..." Gendry felt that he had earned his first real fortune aboard the Telescope.
The coast and skyline of Myr had already come into view. Gendry counted his belongings again before disembarking.
Chapter 14: The Wolf Pack Company
Even the wind in Myr was gentle. The Telescope docked at the harbor, and Gendry and Qyburn disembarked and entered this beautiful new city. Myr was a city of crafts, beautifully built with white marble, fountains, and glass mirrors.
"Take my advice, lad. There are plenty of thieves in Myr. Watch your luggage when you leave!" Captain Dunster warned Gendry before they parted. They needed to find a good inn.
Gendry politely declined Captain Dunster's invitation but thanked him for his kindness. The captain left them an address where they could reach him if they ever needed his help.
With Myrish soil beneath his feet, Gendry felt much more secure. Aside from sending assassins, the Iron Throne could hardly project much power into the Free Cities. This was a haven for fugitives. After the Battle of the Redgrass Field, Daemon Blackfyre had fallen, and Aegor Rivers, known as Bittersteel, had gone into exile with the members of House Blackfyre, fleeing to Tyrosh, the home of Daemon's wife's family. After the War of the Usurper, Daenerys and her brother had likewise fled from place to place.
"Come and buy! Paintings by the masters!"
"The finest lenses! Perfect gifts for friends!"
"Fine carpets! Just one gold coin!"
"Paintings! Exquisite paintings worth their weight in gold, now just five silver coins!" Many Myrmen vendors hawked their goods to travelers around the harbor, and quite a few were children. Most of the Free Cities were commercial cities, where being a merchant was considered more honorable than being a warrior.
Myr was considered one of the most advanced Free Cities, renowned for its art and learning. Gendry studied the goods with interest. They certainly had not come from the hands of Myrish masters, but they were still finely made.
After storing their belongings at a clean, safe inn, Gendry and Qyburn headed for the sellsword market, which lay to the east, in the opposite direction from the harbor.
Qyburn and Gendry both saw plenty of sellswords wandering Myr's streets. Many wore old clothes and dark brown woolen cloaks, with longswords resting casually in their scabbards. In a merchant city, an old man and a child did not look particularly out of place.
"These lace and carpet merchants even fight their wars with gold. They simply can't do without sellswords!" Maester Qyburn grumbled. Myrish handicrafts were famous throughout the known world: carpets and lace, the finest lenses and telescopes, screens, mirrors, and glass panes that fetched prices equal to spices from the east. Myrish paintings and miniatures were also highly prized for their vivid style.
"It's also because of the situation, isn't it?" Gendry added. "Whether they're fighting over the Disputed Lands or sending caravans far afield, they need them! But why don't they raise an army of their own?"
"Perhaps hiring sellswords with food, gifts, or gold is more economical?" Qyburn replied. After all, in Westeros, even Tywin's family, the wealthiest of them all, despised the cowards of the Free Cities.
"Gold can't replace a longsword!"
"Quite right!"
"But, Your Highness, the sellsword square is meant for small and medium-sized companies. The large ones all have their own bases. We won't be able to join a large company here. They don't need to attract clients at the market; clients go straight to them!"
"A smaller company might be safer! If we have no luck here, perhaps we can look elsewhere."
The two reached the vicinity of the Sunrise Gate and found the sellsword square. Its gate was ocher red, guarded by two listless old sellswords holding spears. They were too old to face blood and fire anymore, so they had chosen to guard the gate instead. Business in the square was brisk, however. Some sellswords were looking for work, while clients were looking for companies to hire.
Gendry and Qyburn entered the oval-shaped sellsword square. It really was like a produce market full of haggling. Tents sprouted like mushrooms around a raised platform in the middle, where employers could stand and call out their offers. Gendry saw that each company had raised its banner high, flying it from a lance.
The sellswords came from all sorts of places. The pale, slender ones were Lysene. Most of those with purple or red hair and beards were Tyroshi. The olive-skinned men were Myrmen, while the Pentoshi most resembled Westerosi.
Olive-skinned Myrish freemen discussed matters with sellsword captains, while other sellswords sharpened their weapons, spears and longswords alike. Most of their arms and armor were inferior to those of Westerosi regular soldiers.
"Two sellswords wanted to escort our master's child on a journey through Essos! Terms to be discussed!" an arrogant slave steward shouted from the platform. Traveling was an expensive pursuit, one only the children of nobles or wealthy merchants could afford.
"Me!" "Me!" "Me!" Sellswords raised their hands below the platform. Escorting a noble's child on a journey was a relatively easy job.
The matter was soon settled, with two sellswords taking the job.
"A big contract! Meet a spice caravan coming from the distant east near Qohor. Each sellsword will be paid three times the usual rate, and the captain will receive five beautiful Lysene slaves as an additional gift!" This was another, rather more exciting job.
The crowd instantly fell silent. The job would take too long and lead them too far afield. Especially with those damned Dothraki crossing the Rhoyne from time to time, taking it could mean going to their deaths.
"Fuck you!"
"For a job that dangerous, you ought to go to the Golden Company or the Windblown!" Once the sellswords below recovered, they unleashed a torrent of abuse. Sellswords might be greedy, but they were not fools.
The sellsword square was in an uproar. Gendry began making his way along the tents, looking for a suitable company.
"You're too young, lad, and you've no experience as a sellsword. Your companion, on the other hand, is too old!"
"We don't recruit old men or children. You look well built, lad, but a battlefield is too dangerous for you. If you'll take a third of the pay, we could consider you. As for the old man beside you, we're very sorry!"
"You're young and inexperienced. Training you will cost us money. You can join us, but you'll spend a year as a trainee without pay."
Before Gendry and Qyburn could demonstrate their skills, the companies had already rejected them on reasonable grounds. Gendry could not be bothered to say more. Though one was old and the other young, most companies badly needed apprentice smiths and physicians. They simply lacked the patience and sincerity to find out.
In a remote corner of the sellsword square, Gendry discovered an old tent whose banner showed a pack of wolves running.
"Is that...?"
"The Wolf Pack Company!" Qyburn said. "It was founded by northmen who crossed the sea all those years ago. I never imagined it still existed!"
Chapter 15: The wolves' den (please keep reading)
Gendry looked at the gray wolf banner fluttering in the wind. A pack of gray wolves ran across a snowy field.
The Wolf Pack Company's tent stood in a secluded corner of the sellsword square, attracting little attention. None of its sellswords went to the center of the square to solicit business either. Gendry suspected the company had very few people stationed there.
"Soldiers wanted!" Gendry and Qyburn read the large notice at the entrance to the Wolf Pack Company's tent, then stepped inside.
"Are you here to join the company, or to offer a contract?" There was only one short, fat, sturdy old man in the Wolf Pack Company's tent. Bleary-eyed, he looked at his two unexpected visitors: a tall, gray-haired old man with a slightly stooped back and many wrinkles around his protruding blue eyes, and a tall, muscular boy with blue eyes, thick black hair, and a black iron mask over his face.
The company's fat old man had gray hair, brown eyes, and a few pimples on his face. A gray Wolf Pack Company badge was pinned to his chest. An ink bottle stood beside his hand, and the tent was sparsely furnished. The most striking things were two realistic Myrish paintings behind him. They depicted burly northmen with steely eyes, shaggy hair and beards, longswords, and bearskin cloaks, presumably the company's founders. The old man first spoke in Low Valyrian, the dialects used in the nine Free Cities and the slave cities.
"Yes, we'd like to become sellswords!" Maester Qyburn said. Gendry was learning the language too, but he was nowhere near as fluent as Qyburn.
"Just call me Fatty. I'm the Wolf Pack Company's recruiting officer. Old man, nicknames are more popular than names in a sellsword company. You're rather old! As for this masked brat, are you even sixteen?
"You're either too old or too young. If you want to join us, you'll receive half pay for your first year. I guarantee our pay is about average for the Three Daughters, and you're free to come and go. But the Wolf Pack Company has quite a few rules. Members must swear a sacred oath: no indiscriminate killing, no theft, no rape, and no harming your comrades. We don't welcome bad apples. Better too few men than the wrong ones. If you break your oath, the Wolf Pack Company will never forgive you." Fatty looked at Qyburn doubtfully.
"As a sellsword, I'm very old. As a physician, however, I'm still young. And this boy beside me spent several years as a smith's apprentice," Qyburn said with a smile. Though they were too old or too young, the requirements would be relaxed for skilled men such as physicians and apprentice smiths.
"You look like an odd pair! Still, you're among the few who've wanted to join us lately. Everyone else thinks we have too many rules!" Fatty laughed. The Wolf Pack Company's terms were fairly good. The real issue was the northmen's rules. They were one of the more upright sellsword companies, and although they could not match the Golden Company, they were still quite strict.
"Very good, then. Do either of you have a calling card or a written introduction?" Fatty rubbed his plump hands together, took out his pen, and began writing on a sheet of paper.
"I'm afraid we don't!" Maester Qyburn looked embarrassed.
"That doesn't matter, then. Let me ask a few questions! Where are you from?" the fat old man said. "Your ages and names, too, and where you've come from. Don't worry. The Wolf Pack Company doesn't pry too much into its brothers' affairs. You can be vague. Your oath begins when you join. We don't care if you killed someone back home, but in the Wolf Pack Company, an oath is iron."
"Westeros. Qyburn. Seventy years old. I once forged a healer's link at the Citadel!"
"Westeros. Gendry. Twelve years old. I used to be a smith's apprentice!"
"The sunset lands! That's my homeland. The Wolf Pack Company's forebears were northmen from Westeros, and even now most of us are their descendants. Sadly, I've never been back, though I still speak the language of Westeros!"
"These are our company's founders! Harris Hoare, known as Mad Hal, and Timotty Snow. They served Lord Cregan, the Wolf of Winterfell, before coming to Myr to make a living." The fat old man proudly pointed at the paintings on the wall, then switched languages and chatted with them.
"Twelve?" Fatty glanced at Gendry's build and reminded him, "Such a young boy. You may be tall and strong, but you're still a boy! Where are your parents, lad?"
"I have combat experience. I killed pirates aboard a ship! As for my parents, I don't have any anymore!"
"Good lad! Assuming you aren't lying, you're fine sellsword material: no ties and plenty of brute strength! Still, it doesn't matter if you're boasting. Our captain will test whether you're good steel!" Fatty gave him a thumbs-up. "Bloody Ben started fighting at eleven, after all."
Fatty asked a few more questions, confirming that neither man had any bizarre habits and that both would obey the company's orders.
"What about our pay?" Qyburn asked. Although Gendry had come into a small fortune, pay and conditions still mattered when judging a company's appeal.
"You would have received half pay before, but since you're skilled men, you can receive full pay. A novice sellsword is guaranteed one gold ship coin a month. We also have our own cooks and lodgings. Whether you get one coin or five, though, depends on your performance and how much business the company has."
Maester Qyburn and Gendry considered it and found the pay fairly satisfactory. Even in Myr, this was a fair rate for a small or medium-sized company. Four or five gold dragons could buy a fine suit of armor, so a sellsword could acquire one in six months at most. Sellswords had poor habits, however, and men who lived by the sword also spent lavishly. For those fond of drinking or chasing loose women, the money really would not be enough.
"Before you join the company, could you take off your mask, lad? If you've got a rash or some unpleasant disease on your face, our members will be frightened too."
Gendry removed his mask, revealing black hair, deep blue eyes, and a handsome face. Though he was young, he was clearly a strong, handsome, masculine, and appealing boy.
"A pretty face, lad! You'd better take care of it. If you don't make your living with our company, you'll be very popular in Lys!" Fatty laughed.
"Welcome to the company!" Fatty stamped his sheet of paper, and Gendry and Qyburn officially became members of the Wolf Pack Company. "Welcome, new brothers! But you should give yourselves nicknames. Nicknames are more popular than names!"
"Maester!"
"Hammer!"
"Very good. Come and find me tomorrow morning. We'll head out of the city together to the wolves' den. The captain still needs to give his final approval. I think he'll be pleased that I've recruited two interesting men for the Wolf Pack Company!"
The following morning, Gendry and Qyburn arrived at the wolves' den, the Wolf Pack Company's camp outside Myr.
"Most companies camp in the Disputed Lands. Some have too many men. Take the Golden Company, for instance. If all of them entered the city, even the magisters would be frightened," Fatty explained.
When a small, neatly laid-out military camp came into view, Fatty told them it was the wolves' den. The Wolf Pack Company's banners flew high from poles all around the camp. Sentries in armor patrolled with spears and crossbows.
"We may be few, but the blood of a regular army still runs in our veins!" Fatty said proudly.
Chapter 16: The Spider and Littlefinger (please keep reading)
The Free Cities were not merely cities. Myr, for example, also had estates and towns dependent on it. Myr's agriculture was fairly prosperous, and there were a Firepowder Herb Estate and a Firewine Estate.
After following Fatty out of Myr, Gendry and Qyburn saw the Wolf Pack Company's camp, the Wolf's Den, beside a river in the Disputed Lands. Though small, the company still held itself to strict military standards.
"I'm not boasting. Our Wolf Pack Company's discipline is second to none, perhaps even comparable to the Golden Company's," Fatty said proudly. "After all, our forebears were elite soldiers under Lord Cregan, not a rabble of thieves and murderers."
Gendry studied the Wolf Pack Company's defenses. It really was relatively professional. Deep ditches had been dug around the camp and filled with sharpened stakes. Inside, the tents stood in rows with broad lanes between them. The latrines were built by the water so the current carried away all the waste. The horses were all tethered to the north.
Tall watchtowers stood around the camp, their lookouts cautious and alert.
"Besides, the magisters don't like sellswords killing each other inside Myr. Out in the wilderness, though, every company has a few enemies, except the Golden Company. They're too big and too strong, almost the equal of a regular army!" Fatty explained.
"How many men does the Golden Company have?" Gendry asked curiously.
"Over ten thousand, I think! They're really an army disguised as a sellsword company, the offspring of exiles from the Blackfyre Rebellion, the ghosts of Blackfyre! I don't know the details, but just don't provoke them!" Fatty shrugged.
A sellsword company ten thousand strong was unique in the Disputed Lands.
"All right! Let's go in!" Wearing brown leather armor and a gray cloak, Fatty led the way. The soldiers guarding the entrance recognized the recruiting officer.
A little while later, a burly, powerful man with a fleshy face came out through the gate. A long scar ran from his lower cheek to his nose.
"Good to see you, Fatty! I thought you'd brought us a new client!" Scarface said, then embraced him.
"A little worse than you hoped. No new clients, but I've brought fresh blood!" Fatty said with a smile.
"Who are these two?"
"Hammer. A good lad, not only strong but also a former smith's apprentice."
"Maester. The old fellow may be getting on, but he's a well-trained physician."
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