The Free Cities were not merely walled fortresses; their power extended outward, ruling the surrounding towns, manses, and farmlands. Myr was no exception, boasting rich agricultural estates, fire-pepper plantations, and sprawling vineyards that produced potent fire-wines.
Following Fatty out of the city, Gendry and Qyburn walked until they reached a wide, winding riverbank in the Disputed Lands. There sat the Wolf's Den. Though the Wolf Pack was small, its encampment was laid out with the exacting rigor of a professional army.
"I wasn't boasting when I told you our discipline was unique. Aside from the Golden Company, there is nothing like it in Essos," Fatty said proudly as they approached. "Our founders were the vanguard of Lord Cregan Stark. We are the descendants of soldiers, not a rabble of thieves and cutthroats."
Gendry studied the fortifications with an approving eye. It was indeed a proper military camp. Deep trenches had been dug around the perimeter, lined with sharpened stakes. Inside, the tents were arrayed in neat, geometric rows with wide avenues left clear for rapid troop movement. The latrines had been dug downriver so the current would carry the filth away, and the picket lines for the horses were uniformly secured to the north.
Tall wooden watchtowers commanded all four corners of the camp, manned by sentries who scanned the horizon with sharp, professional vigilance.
"The magisters despise it when sellswords bleed each other inside the city walls. But out here in the wilds, every free company has a dozen enemies," Fatty explained. "Save for the Golden Company, of course. They are too massive, too powerful. They are virtually a standing army in their own right."
"How large is the Golden Company?" Gendry asked.
"Ten thousand swords, perhaps more," Fatty said, shrugging. "They aren't truly a mercenary band. They are an army in exile, marching under the banners of the Blackfyre Pretenders. The ghosts of the Redgrass Field. I don't know the exact numbers, but the rule is simple: do not cross them."
A mercenary company ten thousand strong. It was an anomaly that dominated the Disputed Lands.
"Right then! In we go," Fatty said. Wearing a grey cloak over his brown leather armor, the fat recruiter led them toward the main gate. The sentries recognized him instantly and waved them through.
A moment later, a heavily muscled man built like a brick wall emerged from the camp. A vicious, jagged scar ran down his cheek to the corner of his nose.
"Good to see you, Fatty! I thought you'd brought us a fat magister looking for swords," the scarred man grunted, wrapping the recruiter in a bear hug.
"Worse. No new contracts, but I did find some fresh blood," Fatty laughed, pulling back.
"And who might they be?"
"The Hammer," Fatty said, gesturing to Gendry. "Strong as an ox, and a trained blacksmith's apprentice to boot."
He pointed to Qyburn. "The Maester. He's got winters on him, but he's a highly trained physician."
Fatty then turned to the newcomers. "Boys, meet Pretty Boy. The Pack's infantry commander. Deadly with a morningstar, a longsword, or a halberd."
Gendry and Qyburn offered respectful nods.
"With a handsome young pup like this around, I'm hardly the pretty one anymore," Pretty Boy barked with laughter, slapping his scarred cheek. "Come on. The Captain is waiting in his tent."
The Captain's pavilion was wide and spacious. Above it flew the oldest banner in the camp: the running wolves, the fabric patched and re-dyed over generations of wear and tear.
"That banner is over a century old," Fatty whispered reverently. "From the Dance of the Dragons and the Hour of the Wolf, all the way to today."
Inside the tent, heavy weapons rested on wooden racks: morningstars, chainmail hauberks, massive warhammers, and ash-wood spears. The Captain of the Wolf Pack sat in a folding canvas chair. He was a powerfully built man with grey hair, a thick grey beard, and eyes the color of iron.
To the Captain's left stood a tall, smiling man with oiled, violently purple hair. To his right stood a man black as pitch, wearing a magnificent cape of woven orange and green feathers, unmistakably a Summer Islander.
"Our Captain, Greybeard," Fatty introduced them. "Our Paymaster, Longlegs. And our Master of Archers, Black Billy."
Fatty then introduced the new recruits. "The Maester, a healer. And the Hammer, a blacksmith's apprentice with the shoulders of a bull."
Fatty stepped forward, lowering his voice to murmur a few details into Greybeard's ear.
"A healer. Excellent. Old Dick will finally have some company," Greybeard nodded approvingly.
"I look forward to meeting him," Qyburn replied gracefully.
"And you, lad," Black Billy said, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. "Fatty says you've got the strength of a grown man. Care to show us?"
"Gladly," Gendry said.
He stepped over to the weapon racks, selected a massive, heavy-headed warhammer designed for a fully grown knight, and hoisted it effortlessly. He didn't just lift it; he stepped back and swung it through a series of brutal, controlled arcs.
Greybeard and the officers watched his footwork, the trajectory of his swings, and the utter calm on his face. Veteran warriors could read a man's measure in seconds. Gendry moved with unhurried, lethal precision. The hammer felt like an extension of his arm. Given his age, it was a display of freakish, innate power.
"Welcome to the Pack," Greybeard announced, his iron eyes gleaming with approval. "From this day forth, you are brothers. You run with the wolves."
He stepped forward, pulling Gendry and then Qyburn into a firm embrace.
Across the Narrow Sea, in the deepest, most lavishly appointed room of a high-end King's Landing brothel.
It was an establishment entirely owned and operated by Petyr Baelish.
Lord Petyr Baelish and the eunuch Varys sat across from one another, a perfect study in contrasts. Littlefinger was slender, quick, and slight of build, possessing a pair of smiling, grey-green eyes. Though he was barely thirty, a few strands of silver threaded through his dark hair and pointed beard. A silver mockingbird clasped his cloak.
Varys was plump, powdered, and completely hairless, his head smooth as an egg. He wore a loose, flowing robe of lilac silk and soft velvet slippers that made no sound when he walked.
"Your silver mockingbird is a delight to behold, Lord Petyr. It fills the heart with joy," Varys simpered, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
"You are too kind, my old friend," Littlefinger smiled thinly. "But tell me, what urgent news brings you rushing to my humble establishment today?"
"Oh, merely a trifling matter, but a curious one," Varys said, leaning forward slightly. "A blacksmith's apprentice has vanished from Steel Street. His poor master is entirely beside himself. The boy left a note claiming he had gone to the Reach, but I suspect he may have slipped onto a ship."
"An apprentice?" Littlefinger spread his hands helplessly. "King's Landing is overflowing with apprentices. The loss of one is hardly a tragedy. Perhaps the heat of the forge was too much for him, or his master's temper too foul."
"Perhaps," Varys sighed. "But I cannot help but think that if a strikingly handsome, powerfully built boy slipped out through the River Gate and boarded a ship, your men might have noticed him. After all, Lord Petyr, everyone knows the customs sergeants and the Gold Cloaks love you, and your gold dragons, dearly."
"You have your little birds, Lord Varys. Why not ask them to chirp for you?" Littlefinger deflected smoothly.
"Alas, my little birds always keep their eyes on the high towers," Varys said, offering a mournful, apologetic smile. "They sometimes forget to look down at the gutters. It is my own failing. My flock is finite."
Varys had simply never prioritized the boy. Gendry was a backup piece, a minor bastard placed in a forge and mostly forgotten.
"It is no trouble at all, my old friend," Littlefinger said, his grey-green eyes flashing with sudden, sharp interest. "But if the Master of Whisperers is personally inquiring after a runaway smith... I must assume the boy is no commoner. Let me guess. Does this child carry the blood of a great house?"
"Nothing escapes you, Lord Petyr," Varys chuckled softly, lowering his head. "Yes. The boy carries a very noble bloodline."
"I will see what I can do. But thousands of souls pass through the gates of King's Landing every day. The boy may have left no trail at all. A small fish is easily lost in the sea, and my friends at the docks rarely pay mind to peasants."
"Any assistance you can offer is a blessing," Varys giggled.
"Let us drink, then! To the boundless mercy of Lord Varys!" Littlefinger raised a goblet of deep red summerwine.
"To you, Lord Petyr," Varys returned the toast. "Though, if I may ask a question... why did you change your house sigil? The Titan of Braavos is such a magnificent, fearsome crest."
"The Titan is far too intimidating, my friend. It frightens people," Littlefinger smiled, touching the silver pin at his collar. "The mockingbird is much more approachable, wouldn't you agree?"
"It is more than approachable. The mockingbird mimics the songs of other birds... much like how we must adapt ourselves to the whims of power."
"Who can say?" Littlefinger murmured, taking a sip of his wine. "After all, we are only minor players in the game."
They drank together, the summerwine in their cups shining as bright and dark as blood.