Gendry saw the gray wolf banner snapping in the wind, a pack of gray wolves racing across the snow beneath it.
The Wolf Pack's tent stood in a secluded corner of the Mercenary Square, rarely visited. None of their sellswords lingered in the center to drum up business, which made Gendry suspect there were hardly any of them here at all.
"Recruiting Soldiers!"
Gendry and Qyburn spotted the large notice at the entrance to the Wolf Pack's tent and stepped inside.
"Are you here to join the sellsword company, or to post a job?"
Inside sat only one man: a short, thickset, powerfully built old fellow, peering at the two uninvited guests with sleepy eyes. He had gray hair, brown eyes, and a face still marked by old blemishes. A gray Wolf Pack badge was pinned to his chest. An inkwell rested by his hand, and the tent itself was plainly furnished.
Behind him hung two striking Myr-style realistic paintings. They depicted a burly northern warrior with eyes like iron, a wild beard and hair, a longsword in hand, and a bearskin cloak draped over his shoulders. They were almost certainly the founders of the Wolf Pack.
The old man spoke first in Low Valyrian, the common tongue of the Nine Free Cities and the Slaver's Cities.
"Yes, we wish to become sellswords," Maester Qyburn said.
Gendry was studying the language as well, but he could not match Qyburn's fluency.
"Call me Fatso," the old man said. "I'm the Wolf Pack's recruiter. In a sellsword company, nicknames matter more than names. You're a bit old, old man. And this masked brat, is he even sixteen?
"You're either too old or too young. Still, if you're willing to join, your first year's pay will be half the going rate on the Third Daughter market, guaranteed. You're free to come and go. That said, the Wolf Pack has plenty of rules. Members swear a sacred oath: no senseless killing, no theft, no rape, and no harming your comrades. We don't tolerate black sheep. Better to be understaffed than to take in trash. Break the oath, and the Wolf Pack shows no mercy."
Fatso studied Qyburn with a doubtful look.
"For a sellsword, I am indeed old," Qyburn said with a smile. "But for a healer, I'm still young. As for the boy beside me, he spent several years as a smith's apprentice."
Age might have been a problem, but skilled hands like healers or smiths always lowered the threshold.
"You do look like an odd pair," Fatso laughed. "Still, you're among the few who've been willing to join us lately. Most people complain that our rules are too strict."
The Wolf Pack's pay was decent. More importantly, their northern code made them one of the more upright sellsword companies. Not quite the Golden Company, but strict all the same.
"That's good to hear. Do either of you have a calling card, or some sort of personal introduction?" Fatso rubbed his thick palms together, pulled out his pen, and began writing.
"I'm afraid not," Qyburn said, looking slightly embarrassed.
"No matter. Then I'll ask a few questions. Where are you from?" the stout old man said. "Your names, ages, origins. Don't worry, the Wolf Pack doesn't pry into a brother's past. You can keep it vague. Our oath begins the moment you join. What you killed back home is none of our concern, but within the Wolf Pack, an oath is iron."
"Westeros. Qyburn. Seventy years old. I once forged medical chains at the Citadel."
"Westeros. Gendry. Twelve years old. Former smith's apprentice."
"The Sunset Kingdom is my homeland," Fatso said with a grin. "The Wolf Pack's ancestors were northerners from Westeros. Even now, most of us are descended from them. I've never been back myself, sadly, but I still speak the tongue of Westeros."
He pointed proudly at the paintings behind him.
"These are the founders of the Wolf Pack. 'Mad Hal' Hallis Hornwood, and Timotty Snow. They once served Lord Cregan, the Wolf of Winterfell, before coming to Myr to make their living."
With that, the old man switched to another language and began chatting casually with the two of them.
"Twelve?" Fatso glanced at Gendry's build and shook his head. "You're awfully young. Tall and strong, sure, but you're still just a boy. Where are your parents, child?"
"I've fought before. I killed pirates on a ship," Gendry said. "As for my parents, I don't have any."
"Well then, lad, if you're not lying, you've got what it takes to be a sellsword. No ties, plenty of brute strength." Fatso gave him a thumbs-up. "Bragging doesn't matter. In the Wolf Pack, the captain will see for himself whether you're real steel or just slag. Back in the day, even the Bloodthirsty Squad started fighting at eleven."
Fatso asked a few more questions, making sure neither of them had any strange proclivities and that they would obey company orders.
"What about our pay?" Qyburn asked. Gendry had come into a bit of money, but wages and treatment were still what made or broke a sellsword company.
"You were on half pay before. Now that you've shown you've got skills, you'll get full pay," Fatso said. "A junior sellsword gets a base wage of one gold ship coin a month. We provide lodging and a dedicated cook as well. Whether you end up with one coin or five depends on your performance and how busy the company is."
Maester Qyburn and Gendry gave it some thought and found the terms acceptable. Even in Myr, this was a fair rate among small and medium-sized sellsword companies. Four or five gold dragons could buy a good suit of armor, meaning a sellsword could afford one in half a year at most. Still, sellswords were not known for restraint. Those who lived by the blade spent freely, and anyone fond of drink or chasing wild women would find even that money disappearing fast.
"Before you join the company, take off that mask, lad," Fatso said. "If you've got a rash or some ugly affliction on your face, the men might get nervous."
Gendry removed his mask. Jet-black hair, deep blue eyes, and a well-shaped, handsome face were revealed. Though young, he was clearly strong, healthy, and possessed of a rough, masculine appeal.
"That's a fine face you've got, boy," Fatso laughed. "You'd best look after it. If you weren't earning your keep in our company, you'd be very popular in Lys."
"Welcome to the sellsword company." Fatso stamped the parchment, making it official. Gendry and Qyburn were now members of the Wolf Pack. "Welcome, brothers. You'll want nicknames too. Nicknames travel better than real names."
"Maester."
"Iron Hammer."
"Good," Fatso said. "Come find me tomorrow morning. We'll head outside the city to the Wolf Pack's lair. The captain will make the final call. I think he'll be pleased. Pleased that I've brought two interesting fellows into the Wolf Pack."
The next morning, Gendry and Qyburn followed Fatso to the Wolf Pack's lair, their camp outside Myr.
"Most sellsword companies camp out in the Disputed Lands," Fatso explained along the way. "Some of them grow too large, like the Golden Company. If they all marched into a city, even the Magister would feel uneasy."
When a compact, orderly military camp came into view, Fatso pointed it out as their destination. The Wolf Pack's banners flew high on long poles ringing the camp. Armored sentries patrolled the perimeter with longspears and crossbows.
"We may be few," Fatso said proudly, "but we've still got the blood of a proper army in us."