The wind in Myr was soft as silk, carrying the scents of foreign spices, perfumed oils, and warm sea salt. As the Telescope settled into its berth, Gendry and Maester Qyburn stepped down the gangplank and onto the bustling stone docks of Myr.
To Gendry, the ground felt strangely steady—almost too steady—after weeks of rolling waves. But more than that, he felt a sense of ease he had never known in Westeros. Here, the Iron Throne's reach was distant, little more than a rumor.
Here, exiles thrived.
Myr shimmered before them like a carved gem. White marble buildings rose in elegant curves, their windows decorated with colored glass and mirrored panels that caught the sun like scattered stars. Fountains spilled crystal water onto tiled courtyards. Even the cobblestones looked polished.
It was a city of craft. A city of beauty. A city of makers.
Gendry felt both out of place and strangely at home.
Before he crossed the last plank, Captain Dunster clasped his shoulder.
"Heed my advice, boy," the captain said. "Myr is beautiful, but she's full of thieves. Keep a hand on your purse and the other on your hammer."
"I will," Gendry said with a grateful nod.
"And if you ever find trouble—or work—you know where to find me." Dunster pressed a small parchment into his hand. "My address. Don't lose it."
Gendry bowed slightly. "Thank you, captain. For everything."
Dunster gave a sad smile, as though sending off a son, and hurried back aboard the ship.
---
Once their boots touched the marble streets, Myr's chaos engulfed them instantly.
"Master's paintings! Finest miniatures—only a silver each!"
"Glass mirrors! Myrish glass! Best craft in all Essos!"
"Lenses! Spyglasses! Perfect gifts!"
"Carpets! Carpets! Only one gold coin!"
Merchants lined the docks like an army. Bright banners fluttered in the breeze. Most vendors were adults, but many were children—thin, clever-eyed, and loud-voiced.
Myr was one of the few places where children were expected to work and trade like adults. In the Free Cities, money was god, and those who could earn it were valued.
Gendry scanned their wares with curiosity. Although these weren't true masterpieces of Myrish craft, they were still finer than most goods in King's Landing.
"This place…" Gendry said softly, "it feels different."
Qyburn chuckled. "Naturally. The Free Cities are built on merchants, not warriors. The artisan sits above the knight. Even carpets sell for more than swords."
After securing an affordable, clean room in a modest inn—one with decent locks and no suspicious stains—the two men set out toward the Mercenaries' Market, located across the harbor on the eastern side of the city.
As they walked, they passed mounted mercenaries and wandering sellswords who lounged on corners, leaned against tavern walls, or swaggered drunkenly through the streets. Most wore mismatched armor or old leathers. Many carried longswords without sheaths, tied only by cords or tucked into belts.
Myr's mercenaries were as common as merchants. Trade created wealth; wealth created conflict; conflict created work.
"Look at them," Qyburn muttered. "Even lace merchants need mercenaries. Every caravan, ship, and noble child in Myr hires sellswords."
"Well," Gendry said, "they need someone to survive the Disputed Lands."
"That, and to protect themselves from the Tyroshi, the Lyseni, and their own rivals. As long as gold flows, mercenaries thrive."
They turned a corner, passing a group of armored sellswords arguing loudly.
"In Westeros," Qyburn continued, "the proud lords despise these men. Even the wealthiest—Lord Tywin, Seven curse him—wouldn't suffer Free City cowards."
Gendry smirked. "Gold can't swing a longsword."
"Exactly," Qyburn said, pleased.
Soon, the Sunrise Gate appeared—an ochre-red archway carved with spirals and mythical beasts. Beyond it lay the Mercenaries' Square.
Two elderly guards stood at the entrance, leaning heavily on long spears. Their backs were bent, their eyes dull. Too old for the battlefield, they guarded the market instead, half mercenaries and half beggars.
The square itself was an enormous oval space, filled with a maze of tents and pavilions. A raised platform sat at the center—where employers climbed up to announce jobs. Flags hung from spears like trophies, each representing a company: a cracked moon, a black flask, a broken wheel, a red horse.
It was a market of war.
Gendry and Qyburn moved through the crowd. The noise was deafening.
"Mercenary escort needed! Two guards to accompany my master's son on his tour of Essos!"
At once, dozens of mercenaries thrust their hands into the air.
"Me!"
"Here!"
"I'll take it!"
Escort work was rare, easy, and well paid. The task was claimed within a minute.
Moments later another employer climbed the platform.
"A major contract—meet a spice caravan near Qohor. Pay is triple the usual! The commander will also receive five Lyseni slave-girls!"
Silence.
Then outrage.
"Triple? For a suicide job?"
"Curse you! Hire the Golden Company for that!"
"The Dothraki roam those lands! I'm not dying for spices!"
Booing erupted. A rotten apple struck the man's chest.
Mercenaries wanted gold, but not death.
Gendry wandered deeper into the square, examining tents and flags. He approached a few companies, but the responses were the same.
"You're too young, boy. Go home."
"Your companion is too old. We're not a nursing home."
"We could take you, boy, but at a third the pay. As for the old man—no."
"No experience? You'll need a year's unpaid training."
Again and again, they rejected him without even seeing his hammer hand.
Gendry clenched his jaw. "If they knew who I was…"
Qyburn patted his shoulder. "Let them underestimate you. A wise man once said: 'They will never see the hammer coming.'"
Gendry wasn't sure who that wise man was. He suspected Qyburn had just invented him.
They entered a quieter corner of the square—a place of faded tents, cracked shields, and aging banners. The mercenary companies here were clearly small, poor, and overlooked.
Then Gendry froze.
There, half hidden behind a sagging tent flap, hung a flag depicting a pack of wolves running in full gallop. The cloth was worn but the sigil unmistakable. Not Northern heraldry—but close enough to stir something in his blood.
A black wolf, a grey wolf, a white wolf—all racing forward together.
Qyburn sucked in a breath. "Seven hells…"
"You know it?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn nodded, his eyes alight with memory.
"The Wolf Pack Company. Founded by Northmen—long ago, when several crossed the Narrow Sea in search of gold and war. Hardened men. Stern men. Warriors from the cold North."
He touched the edge of the faded banner.
"I did not expect them to still exist."
Gendry stared at the sigil.
Something primal stirred within him. Not recognition, exactly—but a feeling that he was meant to be here, at this tent, staring up at this wolf banner.
A storm-born boy.
A blacksmith's son.
A Baratheon bastard.
Standing before wolves.
Gendry's hand drifted to the warhammer on his back.
"Let's meet them," he said.
And together, the stag-blooded boy and the disgraced Maester stepped forward, toward the mercenary company that fate had placed in their path.