The Free Cities were more than just bustling ports and trade hubs. Myr, for instance, stretched far beyond the glittering canals and artisan workshops for which it was famous. Its influence extended into a patchwork of fertile lands, vineyards, and ancient manors such as Firegrass Manor and Firewine Manor. These estates fed the city's population and supported its craftsmen, sailors, and mercenaries.
After leaving Myr, Gendry and Qyburn followed Fatty eastward. The three of them traveled along a narrow dirt road that wound through the Disputed Lands, a region where no lord held unquestioned rule and where mercenary banners flew more proudly than feudal sigils. Eventually, they reached the Wolf Pack Company's encampment—a small settlement of tents pitched beside a wide river. A wooden palisade and deep trenches surrounded the perimeter, marking it as the "Wolf's Den."
Though the company was not large, its discipline was immediately clear.
"No exaggeration," Fatty said proudly as they approached, "the Wolf Pack Company's discipline is second to none—perhaps even comparable to the Golden Company. Our ancestors weren't common sellswords, remember. They served under Lord Cregan Stark himself, not some band of thieves and murderers."
Gendry looked around with respectful curiosity. To a blacksmith's apprentice from King's Landing, mercenary life had seemed chaotic and blood-soaked, but here he found an unexpected sense of order. Trenches had been dug in neat lines and filled with sharpened stakes. Tents were arranged row by row, with wide walkways between them. Horses were tethered together in a single organized section. Even the latrines were thoughtfully placed near the river so waste could be carried away by the current.
Lookout towers rose along the edges of the camp, each one manned by an alert guard scanning the horizon for danger.
"Governors in Myr hate mercenary scuffles inside the city," Fatty continued. "But outside? Out here in the wilderness, every company has enemies. Every company except the Golden Company. They're too big, too powerful—practically a regular army."
"How many men do they have?" Gendry asked.
Fatty shrugged. "Over ten thousand, probably. They're the exiled descendants of the Blackfyre Rebellion—an army of ghosts, they say. Whatever the truth, don't provoke them. Even drunk."
A company with ten thousand men was unlike anything Gendry had ever imagined. He swallowed, suddenly understanding why Fatty spoke of them with such wary respect.
"Alright then," Fatty said. "Follow me."
Dressed in brown leather armor and a gray cloak, Fatty marched confidently toward the gate. The guards recognized him immediately and waved the group inside.
A moment later, a burly man stepped out to greet them. He had a long scar running diagonal from his cheek to the bridge of his nose—an old wound that made him look permanently fierce.
"Good to see you, Fatty!" the man boomed, giving him a crushing hug. "I thought you were bringing us a new client!"
"Worse than that," Fatty laughed. "No clients today. But I've brought new blood!"
He gestured to Gendry and Qyburn.
"This is Iron Hammer," Fatty announced. "A strong boy, and a trained blacksmith's apprentice. And this is Qyburn—old, but skilled in medicine."
The scarred man turned to them with interest. "I'm known as the Handsome Man," he said with a grin, despite his scar contradicting the title. "Infantry officer of the Wolf Pack Company. I prefer the morningstar, but I handle any blade that keeps me alive."
Gendry and Qyburn greeted him respectfully. The officer laughed again upon seeing Gendry.
"Compared to this lad, what right do I have to call myself handsome?" He slapped Gendry's shoulder lightly. "Come on then—the commander is waiting!"
The command tent stood at the center of the camp, larger than the rest and marked by the company's banner. The cloth was old and patched, showing wolves charging forward in faded colors.
"That banner's over a hundred years old," the Handsome Man said, pride flashing in his eyes. "It's been with us since the Dance of the Dragons."
Inside the tent, racks of weapons filled the walls—morningstars, chainmail shirts, warhammers, and longspears stood in orderly rows. At a campaign table sat the commander, an older man with a grey beard, grey hair, and piercing grey eyes. His presence was calm but powerful.
To his left sat a tall man with purple-oiled hair and beard—Long Legs, the treasurer. To his right lounged an archer with dark skin and a feathered green-and-orange cape from the Summer Isles—Black Billy, the company's master archer.
Fatty introduced everyone with a flourish. "Commander Greybeard, Treasurer Long Legs, Archer Captain Black Billy—these are the two I mentioned: Qyburn the healer and Iron Hammer the apprentice."
He leaned in and whispered something to Greybeard, who nodded thoughtfully.
"With the old man joining us," the commander said, "Old Dick will finally have a companion."
Qyburn smiled politely. "An honor, truly."
Black Billy's eyes fell on Gendry. "Fatty says you're strong. Care to show us?"
Gendry stepped forward without hesitation. He lifted a heavy warhammer from the rack—a weapon meant for a grown man—and began to swing it in slow, controlled arcs. His movements were steady and confident, the hammer rising and falling as if it weighed nothing.
Greybeard and the officers exchanged impressed looks. A trained eye could always spot strength and potential in the way someone handled a weapon.
When Gendry rested the hammer back on its rack, Greybeard spoke in a booming voice:
"Then welcome to the Wolf Pack! From this day forward, you are our brothers. Roar with the pack, and bleed with the pack!"
He embraced Gendry and Qyburn in turn. For the first time since leaving King's Landing, Gendry felt he might truly belong somewhere.
---
Far away, in King's Landing, the city's filth-stained alleys gave way to the sweet perfume of brothels—many of them secretly owned by Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger.
In the deepest room of one such brothel, two men sat across from each other: one slender and smiling, the other plump and perfumed. The contrast was almost comical.
Littlefinger's grey-green eyes sparkled behind his trimmed beard. Silver strands were beginning to show in his dark hair, though he was not yet thirty. His cloak was clasped with an elegant silver mockingbird.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, sat opposite him like a round, plump cat wrapped in purple silk. Bald as an egg, heavily perfumed, he smiled pleasantly as if he were discussing flowers instead of secrets.
"Your mockingbird is quite beautiful," Varys remarked.
"Thank you," Littlefinger replied with a polite smile. "Now tell me, old friend—why were you so eager to see me?"
"There is news," Varys said softly. "A blacksmith's apprentice has vanished from King's Landing. His poor master is distraught. The child's hidden letter claims he went to the Reach, but he might just as well have taken a ship."
Littlefinger gave a lazy shrug. "Apprentices vanish every week. Heat, hard work, or a heavy-handed master—any number of things push boys to run away."
"Perhaps," Varys agreed. "But this particular boy was strong. Very strong. Handsome too. If someone like him slipped past the docks or city gates, I imagine your people might have noticed."
His smile widened. "Everyone in King's Landing knows how dearly the customs officials and Gold Cloaks adore your golden dragons."
Littlefinger smirked. "If your little birds are chirping, why not send them to look?"
"My birds watch the high places," Varys said with a sigh. "Sometimes they forget to look down."
In truth, Varys simply hadn't bothered to investigate the boy deeply—not yet.
"No matter," Littlefinger said. "A boy you personally inquire about must be special. Let me guess… noble blood?"
Varys leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Nothing escapes you, my friend. Yes. He is a boy of noble blood."
Littlefinger raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'll see what can be done. But King's Landing is a crowded city. Smallfolk come and go like waves. My friends don't always bother to notice them."
"It's enough that you're willing to help," Varys said warmly.
Littlefinger poured two cups of Summer Red wine.
"To the benevolence of Lord Varys."
"To friendship," Varys added.
They drank together, the deep red wine gleaming like blood in the lamplight.
Littlefinger tilted his head. "One question, if I may. Why did you change your sigil? The Titan of Braavos was quite fearsome."
"A titan is too frightening," Varys said with a small smile. "The mockingbird is much more amiable."
"A mockingbird imitates the voices of others," Littlefinger observed. "Just like us, clinging to the edges of power."
Varys nodded. "After all, we are only small men in a vast world."
Their cups clinked softly, two quiet schemers celebrating secrets that could topple kingdoms.