The banner was old and frayed, but the image embroidered upon it was still clear: a pack of grey wolves running across a field of snow. It fluttered in a lonely corner of the Mercenary Square, a place few patrons seemed to visit. The members of the Wolf Pack Company, it seemed, did not solicit business like the others. A simple notice was staked at the entrance to their tent: "Recruiting." Gendry and Qyburn stepped inside.
The tent's interior was sparse. A stout, grey-haired man with sleepy brown eyes looked up at the two uninvited guests. An ink bottle and a stack of papers sat on a simple wooden table before him. The only adornments were two realistic, Myrish-style paintings hanging behind him, depicting fierce-looking northern men with bushy beards and iron gazes, cloaked in bearskins. They were armed with longswords and looked as cold as the winter winds.
"Are you here to join, or to post a contract?" the man asked, his voice a low rumble. He spoke the Low Valyrian common to the Free Cities.
"We wish to become mercenaries," Qyburn replied, his own Valyrian smooth and practiced.
"You can call me Fatty," the recruiter said. "Nicknames are more common than given names in this life. You," he said, nodding at Qyburn, "are a bit old for this work. And the boy," he added, his eyes lingering on Gendry's masked face, "is he even sixteen?"
"If you are too old or too young, but are still willing to join, you'll get half pay for the first year," Fatty continued, his tone all business. "The pay is fair for the market, and you are free to leave when your contract is up. But the Wolf Pack has rules. Hard rules. All our brothers swear an oath: no wanton killing, no theft, no rape, and no harming your comrades. We don't welcome bad apples. If you break the oath, there is no forgiveness."
"As a sellsword, I am old," Qyburn said with a disarming smile. "But as a physician, I have many good years left. And the boy beside me worked for years as a blacksmith's apprentice."
Fatty's eyebrows rose. A physician and a smith. "That is a strange pairing," he mused. "But you are also the first to seek us out in a month. Most complain we have too many rules." He chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling downhill. "Do you have letters of service? Or a reference from a former commander?"
"I'm afraid not," Qyburn said, a troubled look on his face.
"No matter," Fatty grunted, pulling out a pen. "I will ask you a few questions. Your names, ages, and where you are from. Don't worry, we don't pry into a man's past. Our oath begins the day you join. We don't care if you killed a man in your hometown, but in the Wolf Pack, the oath is iron."
"Qyburn. From Westeros. I am seventy years of age. I once studied at the Citadel."
"Gendry. From Westeros. I am twelve. I was a blacksmith's apprentice."
"The Sunset Lands," Fatty said, a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. He switched to the Common Tongue of Westeros. "That is my homeland as well, though I have never seen it. The founders of this company were Northmen. Most of our brothers still have the blood of the First Men in their veins." He gestured proudly to the paintings on the wall. "That is 'Mad Hal' Horwood and Tymont Snow. They served under Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, before coming here to make their fortunes."
His gaze fell on Gendry. "Twelve years old?" he repeated, studying the boy's powerful build. "You are tall for your age, but still just a boy. Where are your parents?"
"I have seen combat," Gendry said, his voice flat. "I killed pirates on the ship that brought us here. As for my parents, I have none."
"Good lad," Fatty said with a genuine grin. "Assuming you are not lying, you have the makings of a sellsword. Unattached, and with a strong back. But bragging is fine, too. The captain will test your steel soon enough." He asked a few more questions, confirming they had no unsavory habits and would obey orders.
"What of our pay?" Qyburn asked.
"Ordinarily, it would be half-pay. But a physician and a smith are skilled men. You'll receive a full share. One gold piece a month, plus food and lodging. More if we land a rich contract."
The pay was fair. A sellsword could earn a suit of good armor in half a year. But it was a hard life, and for those who loved drink and women, the coin never lasted long.
"One last thing," Fatty said. "You'll have to take off that mask, boy. The men won't take kindly to it if they think you're hiding some pox."
Gendry untied the leather straps and removed the iron mask. The face revealed was handsome and strong-jawed, with thick, black hair and deep blue eyes that held a startling intensity.
Fatty let out a booming laugh. "What a handsome devil! You'd best take care of that face, boy. If you weren't here to swing a hammer, you could make a fortune in the pleasure houses of Lys!" He stamped a piece of paper with a wax seal. "Welcome to the Wolf Pack. You'll need nicknames. What will they be?"
"Maester," Qyburn said simply.
"Iron Hammer," Gendry replied.
"Very good. Meet me here tomorrow morning. We'll go to the Wolf's Den, the company camp outside the city. The captain will want to meet the two interesting new recruits I've found for him."
The next morning, they followed Fatty out of the city. "Most sellsword camps are in the Disputed Lands," he explained. "A company like the Golden Company has thousands of men. If they all marched into Myr, the magisters would piss their silk trousers."
Soon, a small, orderly military camp came into view. The wolf banner flew high from poles around its perimeter, and armored sentries patrolled with longspears and crossbows.
"We may be few," Fatty said with a surge of pride, "but we still have the blood of true soldiers."