Gendry caught sight of the gray direwolf banner fluttering in the wind, and a pack of gray wolves racing across the snow. The tents of the Wolf Pack were tucked away in a secluded corner of the mercenary square, drawing little attention.
None of the Wolf Pack's soldiers ventured to the center of the square to drum up business, leading Gendry to suspect there weren't many of them around.
"Recruiting soldiers!" Gendry and Qyburn spotted the bold announcement at the entrance of the Wolf Pack's tent and stepped inside.
"Here to join the company? Or looking to hire us?" The tent was occupied by a single stocky, older man, his eyes bleary as he regarded the unexpected visitors. One was a tall, slightly stooped old man with gray hair, deep blue eyes, and a face lined with wrinkles. The other was a sturdy boy with a strong build, blue eyes, thick black hair, and a black iron mask covering his face.
The Wolf Pack's chubby recruiter had gray hair, brown eyes, and a few pockmarks on his face. A gray direwolf pin adorned his chest, and an ink bottle sat by his hand.
The tent was sparsely furnished, but the most striking features were two Myrish-style portraits behind him. They depicted two northern men with iron-like gazes, wild hair and beards, swords at their sides, and bear pelts draped over their shoulders—likely the founders of the Wolf Pack. The old man first spoke in Low Valyrian, the dialect of the Nine Free Cities and the slaver cities.
"Yes, we're here to join as mercenaries!" Maester Qyburn replied. Gendry was learning the language but wasn't as fluent as Qyburn.
"Call me Fatso. I'm the recruiter for the Wolf Pack. Around here, nicknames are more popular than real names. Old man, you're a bit on the older side for this line of work. And you, masked kid, are you even sixteen? If you're willing to join, your first year's pay will be half the standard rate, but we guarantee it'll be mid-tier for the Three Daughters' market. You're free to leave anytime. But we've got rules: no wanton killing, no theft, no rape, no harming your comrades. We don't tolerate troublemakers—quality over quantity. Break the oath, and the Wolf Pack shows no mercy." Fatso eyed Qyburn skeptically.
"For a mercenary, I'm old. But for a healer, I'm still young. And this boy here? He's spent years as a blacksmith's apprentice," Qyburn replied with a smile. While age might be a barrier, skills like healing or blacksmithing lowered the recruitment bar.
"You're an odd pair, but you're the first in a while who's willing to join. Most think our rules are too strict," Fatso chuckled. The Wolf Pack's reputation was solid, strict, northern discipline, not quite the Golden Company, but respectable.
"Do you have any references or resumes?" Fatso rubbed his chubby hands together, pulling out a pen and paper.
"Afraid not," Qyburn admitted, looking slightly embarrassed.
"No matter. Let's start with some questions. Where are you from?" Fatso asked. "And your ages, names, and origins. Don't worry, we don't pry too much. Our oath starts when you join. What you did back home is your business, but in the Wolf Pack, the oath is iron."
"Westeros. Qyburn. Seventy. I once forged a medical chain at the Citadel."
"Westeros. Gendry. Twelve. Former blacksmith's apprentice."
"The Sunset Lands—my homeland. The Wolf Pack's ancestors were northerners from Westeros, and even now, most of us are their descendants. Sadly, I've never been back, but I still speak the language."
"These are our founders," Fatso said proudly, pointing to the portraits. "Harrold 'Mad Hal' Horwood and Timmett Snow. They once served under Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, before coming to Myr to make their fortune." He switched languages, chatting casually with the two.
"Twelve?" Fatso eyed Gendry's build. "You're a big lad for your age, but still a boy. Where are your parents, kid?"
"I've got combat experience—killed pirates on a ship. As for parents, I don't have any."
"Good lad. If you're not lying, you've got the makings of a fine mercenary—no ties, plenty of muscle. But even if you're spinning tales, no harm. In the Wolf Pack, the captain will test if you're made of the right stuff." Fatso gave a thumbs-up. "Back in the day, even the Bloody Mummers started fighting at eleven."
Fatso asked a few more questions, ensuring neither had any odd habits and would follow orders.
"What about our pay?" Qyburn asked. Though Gendry had come into some money, compensation was still a key factor in a mercenary's choice.
"You'll get full pay now, since you've got skills. Base pay for a recruit is one golden ship per month. We've got our cooks and lodging. But whether you earn one or five depends on your performance and the company's business."
Qyburn and Gendry considered the offer. It was fair for a mid-sized company in Myr. Four or five golden dragons could buy a fine suit of armor, meaning a mercenary could afford one in half a year. But mercenaries lived hard lives, spending heavily on drink and women.
"Before you join, how about removing that mask, kid? If you've got some rash or disease, it might spook the others."
Gendry removed his mask, revealing a handsome face with sharp features, black hair, and piercing blue eyes. Though young, he was strong and striking.
"A pretty face, lad! You'd do well in Lys if you ever leave the company," Fatso laughed.
"Welcome to the Wolf Pack!" Fatso stamped the paper, officially making Qyburn and Gendry members. "But you'll need nicknames—they're more popular than real names here."
"The Maester."
"The Hammer."
"Good. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and we'll head to the Den outside the city. The captain will have the final say. I'm sure he'll be pleased I've recruited two interesting souls."
The next morning, Gendry and Qyburn arrived at the Den, the Wolf Pack's camp outside Myr.
"Most mercenary camps are in the Disputed Lands. Some companies, like the Golden Company, are so large that even the governor would fear them entering the city," Fatso explained.
When a small, orderly camp came into view, Fatso proudly declared it the Den. The Wolf Pack's banners flew high on poles around the perimeter, and sentries in armor patrolled with spears and crossbows.
"We may be few, but we've got the blood of a proper army," Fatso said with pride.