Gendry stared up at the banner snapping in the wind. Against a field of grey, a pack of wild wolves ran across snow.
The tent belonging to the Wolf Pack was tucked away in an ignored, dusty corner of the mercenary plaza. No criers stood on the central platform shouting for recruits on their behalf. Given the absolute lack of foot traffic, Gendry suspected the company was not particularly large.
A rough wooden sign hung outside the flap, bearing two words in the Common Tongue: Swords Wanted.
Gendry and Qyburn pushed past the canvas flap. Inside, the tent was sparsely furnished. A stout, fat old man sat behind a simple wooden table, blinking sleepy brown eyes at the two intruders.
He took them in: a tall, stooped elder with striking blue eyes and a shock of grey hair, and a heavily muscled boy with thick black hair, his face obscured by a crude iron half-mask.
The fat man wore a grey wolf pin pinned to his tunic. Behind him hung two Myrish-style realist portraits. They depicted massive, broad-shouldered men with eyes like iron, wild hair, and heavy bearskin cloaks draped over their armor, the founders of the company.
"Are you here to buy swords, or to sell them?" the fat man asked, speaking in Bastard Valyrian, the bastardized dialect spoken across the Free Cities and Slaver's Bay.
"We are here to sell," Qyburn replied smoothly in the same tongue. Gendry was learning the language, but he was nowhere near Qyburn's fluency.
"Call me Fatty. I handle the ledgers and the recruiting," the fat man grunted. "In a free company, titles and aliases hold far more weight than names, old man. You look half a step from the grave. And the masked boy... what is he, sixteen?"
Fatty leaned back, crossing his arms. "You are too old, and he is too young. If you want to march with us, you'll take half-pay for the first year. It's a fair rate, right down the middle for the Three Daughters, and you are free to leave whenever you wish. But mind you, the Wolf Pack has iron rules. Every brother takes a sacred oath. No butchering the innocent, no thieving from employers, no rape, and no drawing steel on a brother. We don't abide mad dogs in our ranks. Break the oath, and the Pack offers no forgiveness."
He eyed Qyburn skeptically. "Still interested?"
"I may be old for a sellsword, but I am quite young for a master physician," Qyburn smiled, tapping his chest. "As for the boy, he has spent years as a blacksmith's apprentice."
Fatty's eyebrows shot up. A strange pair indeed, but skilled labor changed everything. A mercenary company could always find men willing to swing a sword, but trained healers and armorers were desperately rare. The recruitment standards immediately shifted.
"Well, that is a different tune," Fatty laughed, his belly jiggling. "And a welcome one. We haven't had many volunteers lately. Most of the scum in this plaza think our rules are too tight."
The Wolf Pack offered decent coin, but their rigid Northern discipline made them an anomaly among sellswords. They were a fiercely honorable company, perhaps not as famous as the Golden Company, but just as strict regarding contracts and conduct.
"Excellent. Do you have letters of introduction or references?" Fatty asked, rubbing his plump hands together as he dipped a quill into a pot of ink.
"I am afraid we do not," Qyburn said, looking perfectly contrite.
"No matter. I'll just ask. Where do you hail from, what are your names, and how old are you?" Fatty said, waving the quill. "Don't worry, the Pack doesn't pry too deeply into a brother's past. You can be as vague as you like. Your oath only begins the moment you sign the ledger. We don't care who you killed back home, but once you're in the Pack, the oath is iron."
"Westeros," Qyburn answered. "Qyburn. Seventy years. I once forged a chain of maester's links at the Citadel."
"Westeros. Gendry. Twelve years. Blacksmith's apprentice," Gendry added.
Fatty paused, looking up from his ledger. He switched seamlessly from Bastard Valyrian to the Common Tongue of Westeros.
"The Sunset Kingdom," Fatty murmured, a nostalgic warmth entering his voice. "That is my homeland as well. The founders of the Wolf Pack were men of the North, and even today, much of our blood traces back to Westeros. I've never seen the shores myself, but I know the tongue."
He gestured proudly to the portraits behind him. "The founders of our Pack. 'Mad Hal' Harris Hornwood, and Timmett Snow. They marched south with Lord Cregan Stark, the 'Old Man of the North,' during the Hour of the Wolf. When the fighting was done, they crossed the Narrow Sea to carve out a living in Myr."
Fatty looked back at Gendry, scrutinizing his sheer size. "Twelve years old? You're built like a draft horse, lad, but you're still a boy. Where are your parents?"
"I've killed pirates on the Narrow Sea," Gendry stated flatly. "And I have no parents."
"Fierce little pup," Fatty chuckled, raising a thumb. "If you aren't lying, you're perfect for the life. No attachments and plenty of brute strength. And if you are lying, it hardly matters. The Captain will test your steel soon enough. It wouldn't be the first time, the Bloody Mummers have been known to take boys as young as eleven."
Fatty asked a few more routine questions, satisfying himself that neither of them harbored any debilitating madness and that they understood the chain of command.
"And what of our pay?" Qyburn asked. Gendry had coin, but a mercenary's status was measured by his contract.
"Since you possess actual skills, you'll bypass the half-pay probationary period. Full shares," Fatty declared. "A junior brother's base pay is one Myrish gold boat a month, plus camp rations and a bed. But depending on your performance and the contracts we take, you could see five boats a month or more."
Qyburn and Gendry exchanged a look. It was a fair wage for a mid-tier company in Myr. Four or five gold dragons could buy a suit of quality armor in half a year. Of course, most sellswords drank and whored away their coin faster than they could earn it, but for disciplined men, it was a solid living.
"Before I stamp the ledger, take off the mask, boy," Fatty requested. "If your face is rotting off with greyscale, the brothers will panic."
Gendry unbuckled the straps and pulled the iron away.
Thick black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a striking, handsome face framed by a strong jaw.
"Well, well. A pretty face on a brute's body," Fatty laughed uproariously. "You'd best guard that face, lad! If the sellsword life doesn't suit you, the pillow houses in Lys will pay a fortune for you!"
Fatty slammed his ink stamp down onto the parchment.
"Welcome to the Wolf Pack! You are officially brothers now," Fatty beamed. "But you'll need aliases. Names get you killed; aliases build legends."
"The Maester," Qyburn said smoothly.
"The Hammer," Gendry replied.
"Excellent. Meet me here tomorrow morning. I'll take you outside the city walls to the Wolf's Den, and the Captain will finalize your placement. He'll be thrilled I found two such interesting strays."
The next morning, Gendry and Qyburn followed Fatty out of Myr toward the Wolf's Den.
"Most free companies keep their camps out in the Disputed Lands," Fatty explained as they walked. "The massive companies, like the Golden Company, terrify the magisters. If ten thousand armed men marched inside the city walls, the ruling council would panic."
Eventually, a small, highly organized military encampment came into view.
It was nothing like the chaotic, sprawling tent-cities of lesser mercenaries. The Wolf's Den was laid out with precise, geometric discipline. The grey wolf banners snapped proudly from tall poles surrounding the perimeter. Sentries wearing polished ringmail and carrying halberds and Myrish crossbows patrolled the boundaries with sharp, professional vigilance.
"We may not have the numbers of the great companies," Fatty said, swelling with pride, "but the blood of a true army still runs in our veins."