Outside the city walls, the gentle hills of Myr's hinterlands were dotted with manors and towns, their fields rich with firegrass and wine grapes. Following Fatty, Gendry and Qyburn left the city and soon came upon the Wolf Pack's camp, the 'Wolf's Den,' situated by a river in the Disputed Lands. Though small, the company held itself to the strict standards of a true army.
"No exaggeration, the Wolf Pack's discipline is second to none," Fatty said proudly. "We might not be the Golden Company, but our ancestors were elite soldiers of the North, not a rabble of thieves and murderers."
Gendry saw the truth in his words. The camp was a model of military order. Deep trenches filled with sharpened stakes surrounded the perimeter. Tents were arranged in neat rows with wide passages between them, and latrines were built downstream to carry waste away. The horses were tethered together to the north, and sentries stood watch in tall lookout towers, their eyes sharp and vigilant.
"The magisters of Myr don't like sellswords fighting in their streets," Fatty explained as they walked. "But out here in the wilds, every company has its enemies. Every company but the Golden Company. They are too large, too powerful. More an army than a sellsword band."
"How many men do they have?" Gendry asked.
"Ten thousand, maybe more," Fatty shrugged. "They are the ghosts of the Blackfyre Rebellions, an army of exiles. I don't know the specifics. Just know not to cross them."
A man with a long, jagged scar running from his cheek to his nose emerged from the camp's gate. "Fatty! Good to see you. I thought you might be bringing us a new contract." The scarred man clapped him on the shoulder in a rough embrace.
"Better than a contract, Handsome," Fatty said with a grin. "I've brought new blood." He gestured to Gendry and Qyburn. "This is Iron Hammer, a strong lad who was a blacksmith's apprentice. And this is Qyburn, an old man, but a trained physician."
Fatty then introduced the scarred man. "This is Handsome. He's our infantry commander. Don't let the nickname fool you; he's more skilled with his morning star than he is with the ladies."
"Compared to this young man, what kind of handsome am I?" the man laughed, his eyes crinkling. "Come. The commander is waiting for you in his tent."
The commander's tent was large and spacious. The company's oldest banner, the charging wolf pack, hung from the central pole, its colors faded and patched from a hundred years of war. Inside, a robust man with a grey beard, grey hair, and piercing grey eyes sat in a campaign chair. To his left was a tall, smiling man with a purple-dyed beard, and to his right, a shadowy figure wrapped in a beautiful cloak of green and orange feathers from the Summer Isles.
"Our commander, Greybeard," Fatty announced. "Our paymaster, Long-Legs, and our captain of archers, Black Billy." He then presented the newcomers. "Qyburn, skilled in the healing arts. And Iron Hammer, a strong boy and a blacksmith."
"A physician," Greybeard rumbled. "Our own healer, Old Dick, will be glad for the company."
"It is an honor," Qyburn replied gracefully.
"Fatty says you are strong, boy," Black Billy said, his eyes full of curiosity. "Why don't you show us?"
Gendry walked to a weapons rack, picked up a heavy, two-handed warhammer, and began to swing it with an easy, fluid power. The officers watched his footwork, his posture, his expression. They were warriors, and they could see the effortless strength in the boy's movements. For one so young, he was a natural.
"Welcome to the Wolf Pack," Greybeard said, a smile finally breaking through his stern expression. "From this day, you are our brothers. You will run with the pack."
***
In a deep, secluded room in a King's Landing brothel, two men sat across from each other. The room, like the brothel itself, was the property of Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger was slender and quick, with smiling grey-green eyes and a small, pointed beard. Varys, the Master of Whisperers, was his opposite: plump and powdered, his bald head gleaming like an egg in the candlelight.
"Your silver mockingbird," Varys said, his voice soft as silk, "it is a delightful new affectation."
"Thank you, old friend," Littlefinger replied with a thin smile. "You seemed eager to see me. What news have your little birds brought you?"
"They sing of a blacksmith's apprentice who has vanished," Varys said. "He left his good employer quite distressed. A note was found, saying he went to the Reach, but my birds hear whispers of the sea."
"An apprentice?" Littlefinger shrugged. "King's Landing is full of them. The boy probably couldn't stand the heat of the forge."
"Perhaps," Varys conceded. "But I thought, if a particularly handsome and strong boy slipped away through the gates, or from the docks, your own people might have noticed. Everyone knows how the customs officers and the Gold Cloaks do so love your golden dragons."
"And why do your own little birds not go looking?" Littlefinger countered.
"Alas, my birds tend to fly in high places. They sometimes forget to look down," Varys said, spreading his soft hands in a gesture of helplessness. The truth was, he had not considered the boy a valuable enough piece to watch closely.
"A boy you ask after personally," Littlefinger mused, his eyes glinting with cunning. "He must be no ordinary boy. Of noble blood, I would guess?"
"Nothing escapes you, my friend," Varys leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He is indeed."
"I will do my best to help, of course," Littlefinger said smoothly. "But so many people come and go. A small person is easily lost. My friends do not pay much attention to small people."
"Your willingness to help is enough," Varys chuckled.
"Let us have a drink," Littlefinger said, pouring two goblets of Arbor red. "To the benevolence of our Lord Varys."
"To your new mockingbird," Varys replied, raising his cup. "It is a curious choice. The titan was so… formidable."
"And frightening, old friend," Littlefinger said. "The mockingbird is a much more amiable creature."
"It is more than amiable," Varys said, his eyes meeting Littlefinger's over the rim of his goblet. "The mockingbird imitates the songs of other birds. Much as we small men must cling to the songs of the powerful to survive."
"Indeed," Littlefinger agreed. They both drained their cups, the wine swirling like fresh blood in the candlelight.