The Free Cities are not just the cities themselves, like Myr. They also include the surrounding manors and towns tied to them. Myr's agriculture is quite strong, with estates devoted to Myrish fire herbs and firewine distilleries.
After Gendry and Qyburn followed "Fatso" out of Myr, they came upon the Wolf Pack's camp, known as the Wolf's Den, along a riverbank in the Disputed Lands. Though small in number, the Wolf Pack held itself to strict military standards.
"I'm not bragging. Our Wolf Pack's discipline is one of a kind. You could even say it rivals the Golden Company," Fatso said proudly. "After all, our forebears were elite soldiers under Lord Cregan, not some rabble thrown together from thieves and killers."
Gendry studied the Wolf Pack's defenses. This mercenary Company was indeed far more formal than most. Deep trenches surrounded the camp, lined with sharpened wooden stakes. Inside, the tents were arranged in neat rows, with broad paths left between them. Latrines were built along the river, all waste carried away by the flowing water. The horses were all tethered together on the northern side.
Tall watchtowers rose around the camp, with lookouts posted atop them, cautious and alert.
"Besides, the Magisters don't like mercenaries killing each other inside Myr," Fatso explained. "Out in the wilds, though, every Company has a few enemies, except for the Golden Company. They're too big, too strong, almost the equal of a proper army!"
"How many men does the Golden Company have?" Gendry asked, intrigued.
"More than ten thousand, I'd say. They're basically an army pretending to be a Company. The descendants of Blackfyre rebels in exile, the ghosts of Blackfyre. I don't know the exact number, but just don't go provoking them," Fatso said with a shrug.
A mercenary Company ten thousand strong was unmatched in the Disputed Lands.
"Alright, let's go in." Wearing brown leather armor and a gray cloak, "Fatso" took the lead. The guards at the camp gate recognized the recruiter at once.
A short while later, a broad, powerfully built man stepped out of the camp. A long scar ran across his face, from his lower cheek to his nose.
"Good to see you, Fatso! I thought you'd brought us a new client," Scarface said, pulling him into a hug.
"Worse than you hoped. No new clients, but I did bring fresh blood," Fatso replied with a grin.
"And these two are?"
"Iron Hammer. Good lad. Strong, and he used to be a smith's apprentice."
"Maester. He's old, but he's a well-trained healer."
Fatso then introduced Scarface in return. "Handsome Man, our infantry officer in the Wolf Pack. He's skilled with the flail, longsword, and longblade alike."
Gendry and Qyburn greeted "Handsome Man."
"Next to a young fellow like this, what kind of Handsome Man am I?" Handsome Man laughed loudly. "Come on, the Captain is waiting for us in the tent."
The Wolf Pack Captain's tent was large and spacious, flying the tallest and oldest banner in the camp. Wolves ran across its surface, the colors patched and repainted over time.
"This banner's more than a hundred years old, from the days of the Dance of the Dragons to now."
The group stepped inside. Weapons hung from racks along the sides: flails, chainmail, warhammers, and long spears. The Wolf Pack Captain sat on a campaign chair, a solidly built man with gray beard, gray hair, and gray eyes. To his left stood a tall man with a constant smile, his purple hair and beard slicked as though oiled. To his right was a man like a living shadow, draped in an exceptionally ornate green-and-orange feathered cloak, clearly a native of the Summer Isles.
"Our Captain, Greybeard. Our treasurer, Longlegs. And our archery master, Black Billy," Fatso said, introducing them in turn. "Maester, an old man skilled in the healing arts. And Ironhammer, a strong lad who's also a smith's apprentice."
Then Fatso stepped forward and muttered a few quiet words to Greybeard and the others.
"An old man joining our ranks? Good. Now Old Dick will have some company."
"It's an honor," Qyburn replied smoothly. Dick, it seemed, was another old man.
"Boy," Black Billy said with interest, "Fatso tells me you're strong. Care to show us what you can do?"
"Easy enough," Gendry said.
He grabbed a large warhammer meant for a full-grown man and began swinging it around as if it weighed nothing.
Greybeard and the others watched closely, studying his stance, his footwork, the path of each strike, even his expression. Warriors could tell skill and strength at a glance. Gendry moved steadily, unhurried and completely in control, handling the heavy hammer with practiced ease. For someone his age, it was nothing short of natural monstrous strength.
"Welcome," Greybeard declared loudly. "From this moment on, you're brothers of the Wolf Pack. Now howl with the pack!"
He stepped forward and embraced them one by one.
...
In King's Landing, in the deepest and quietest room of a brothel. Many of the brothels in the city were Littlefinger's properties.
Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, sat across from Varys the Spider. The two men made a perfect contrast, one slim and small, the other broad and heavy.
Littlefinger was lean and quick, shorter than most men, with gray-green eyes that always seemed full of amusement. He wore a bit of beard along his jaw, and there were already a few silver strands mixed into his black hair, though he was not yet thirty. A silver mockingbird clasp held his cloak. Varys, by contrast, was soft and plump, powdered and perfumed, his head smooth as an egg. He wore a loose purple silk robe and velvet slippers.
"Your silver mockingbird is a delightful sight," Varys said approvingly.
"High praise, my old friend," Littlefinger replied with a pleasant smile. "So, what's new? You seemed terribly eager to see me."
"There is indeed something new," Varys said. "A smithy's apprentice has disappeared, and his good master is nearly frantic. The letter the boy left behind says he went to the Reach, but it's also possible he sailed out to sea."
"An apprentice?" Littlefinger spread his hands. "King's Landing is full of blacksmiths' apprentices. Losing one now and then is hardly worth fretting over. Perhaps the boy couldn't bear the heat, or grew tired of being worked like a mule."
"Perhaps," Varys agreed. "But I would think that if such a strikingly handsome and strong boy slipped away through the docks or out the gates, your people might have noticed."
He smiled faintly.
"After all, everyone knows Lord Littlefinger is loved by all. The customs officials, the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing, they all adore your golden dragons."
"The little birds chirp and chatter," Littlefinger said lightly. "Why don't they go looking?"
"The little birds keep their eyes on what's above," Varys said, spreading his hands. "Perhaps they've forgotten to look down. My failing. My little birds are always… limited."
The truth was simpler: he had never cared all that much about this particular pawn.
"It's no matter, my old friend," Littlefinger said. "For you to ask personally, this boy must be no ordinary runaway. Let me guess… does he carry the blood of some noble house?"
Varys leaned forward.
"Nothing escapes you, my friend. Yes. He is a boy of noble blood."
"I'll do what I can," Littlefinger said. "But King's Landing sees endless comings and goings. There may be no trail to follow. And you know how it is, a small figure vanishing… my friends don't always take such matters seriously."
"As long as you're willing to help, that's enough," Varys said, chuckling softly.
"Then let us drink," Littlefinger said, pouring him a cup of summerwine. "To the kindness of Lord Varys."
"Cheers."
Littlefinger lifted his own cup, then paused as if something had only just occurred to him.
"One question," he said. "Why did you change your sigil, my good lord?"
"The Titan of Braavos is a frightening thing," Varys replied smoothly. "Surely the mockingbird is much friendlier."
"Not only friendlier," Littlefinger said. "The mockingbird imitates the calls of other birds, just as we cling to power."
"Who could deny it?" Varys said. "After all, we're only small folk."
They drank together, draining their cups. The summerwine was as red as blood.