Gray wolf banners fluttered in the warm Myrish wind, their silhouettes rippling like predators stalking across fresh snow. The Wolf Pack Company's encampment in the Mercenaries' Square was tucked away in an almost forgotten corner, far from the bustling crowds and noisy tents where other sellswords fought over contracts.
It felt quiet. Isolated. Overshadowed.
But not weak.
Gendry sensed it immediately—this company was different.
Unlike the flashy mercenaries boasting of their kills in the central square, the Wolf Pack had no barkers, no recruiters shouting prices, no men waving swords to attract attention. Their presence was subdued, but not timid. It was the quiet confidence of those who had seen too much, lost too much, and survived anyway.
A large placard hung at the tent's entrance:
RECRUITING – SERGEANTS WANTED
Gendry and Qyburn exchanged a glance and stepped inside.
The interior was unexpectedly simple. A single desk. A battered table. A small stack of scrolls. And behind it sat a short, stout man with a round belly and a tired face. His cheeks were dotted with the lingering pimples of old age, and his brown eyes sagged with exhaustion. He wore the emblem of the Wolf Pack Company pinned proudly to his chest.
Two large Myrish-style paintings hung behind him—depicting two Northern warriors with thick beards, fierce eyes, and fur cloaks. They looked like carved iron statues brought to life. Even without being told, Gendry could tell these must be the company's legendary founders.
The stout man looked up, speaking first in Low Valyrian.
"Come to join the company? Or post a contract?"
Qyburn answered in smooth Low Valyrian, "To join."
Gendry could understand the language, though he lacked Qyburn's fluency. He let the Maester speak.
"Aye then," the stout man grunted. "Call me Fatty. Everybody does. In this company, nicknames stick better than real names."
He studied the pair—Qyburn with his hunched shoulders and age-lined face, and Gendry with his tall build and iron mask.
"Old… too old," Fatty mumbled. "And that one—too young. Is he even sixteen?"
"Close enough," Qyburn replied kindly. "Too old as a sellsword, perhaps, but not too old to heal. I am a trained physician. And the boy here, he's worked several years as a blacksmith's apprentice."
Fatty raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Skilled men. That changes things."
He leaned back in his chair, squinting at them. "Listen well. The Wolf Pack Company offers half-pay in the first year for those too old or too young. But blacksmiths and physicians—aye, we make an exception. Full pay."
He pointed a thick finger at Gendry.
"However, we have rules. Strict rules. More than other sellsword bands. We forbid murder outside contracts, forbid theft, forbid rape, forbid harming comrades. Break the oath, and there's no forgiveness. We'd rather have ten fewer swords than one rotten apple."
Gendry nodded. He respected that.
Qyburn inclined his head politely. "Order is what keeps men alive."
Fatty gave a small approving grunt. "Good. Good."
He pulled out a slip of parchment and dipped a quill into an ink bottle.
"I'll need your basics. Names, ages, homeland. And don't fret—we don't dig too deep. A man's past belongs to him. The oath only starts once you join us. If you killed someone back home, we don't give a damn. But do wrong here… and the Pack bites."
Qyburn spoke first.
"Qyburn, seventy years old. From Westeros. Formerly of the Citadel."
"Westeros, eh?" Fatty nodded. "We've had many from the Sunset Continent. The Wolf Pack itself was founded by Northerners."
Then he turned to Gendry.
"And you, boy?"
"Gendry," he said simply. "From Westeros. Twelve years old. Blacksmith's apprentice."
Fatty blinked.
"Twelve?"
He eyed Gendry again, taking note of the broad shoulders, thick arms, and steady stance.
"Well, you're a big twelve," he admitted. "Where are your parents?"
"Dead," Gendry said. "Long ago."
Fatty grunted. "A boy without ties, with strength in his shoulders—that's mercenary material, if you aren't lying."
He gave a small smile. "But even if you are lying, the Captain will test your steel soon enough. We don't take weaklings, no matter how sad their stories."
He scribbled a few notes.
"Let me show you something."
Fatty gestured at the Myrish paintings behind him.
"These are our founders—'Mad Hal' Harris Horwood and Tymont Snow. Both served under Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, in old tales. After wars and heartbreak, they crossed the Narrow Sea and forged this company."
Qyburn's eyes widened slightly. He bowed in respect. "Northern warriors," he murmured. "I've read of them."
"Aye," Fatty replied. "Their descendants still serve here. Hard men. Old blood."
He switched languages to test their fluency. Gendry understood enough to follow, replying when needed. Fatty seemed satisfied.
Then came the next question—
"What is your pay?" Qyburn asked politely.
Fatty chuckled. "Ahh. Straight to the point."
He scratched his beard and explained:
"A junior mercenary earns one gold ship coin a month. Could be more—could be up to five. Depends on performance, discipline, and how well the company's doing. Food, camp, and basic equipment provided. The rest depends on your blade… or your hammer."
Gendry nodded. That was fair. Even good.
In six months, he could buy a full set of quality armor. But he also knew mercenaries spent coin as quickly as they earned it—drink, women, gambling, bribes, weapons. Men who lived by the sword rarely lived wisely.
"We accept," Qyburn said.
"Good. But one thing left," Fatty said, looking at Gendry's mask. "Take that off. The men won't trust you if they can't see your face."
Gendry hesitated only a moment before lifting the mask away.
His dark hair fell naturally, framing striking blue eyes. His face—young as it was—was strong, symmetrical, confident. A Baratheon face. A face that mirrored the long-dead beauty of Renly.
Fatty's eyebrows shot up.
"Oh-ho! Handsome pup, aren't you? That face would earn you a fortune in Lys!" He let out a hearty laugh. "Good thing you're joining us instead of selling kisses."
Gendry rolled his eyes. Qyburn smirked.
Fatty stamped the parchment with the Wolf Pack seal.
"Welcome, brothers," he declared. "But you'll need nicknames. Names don't matter in sellsword life—nicknames stick longer."
"Maester," Qyburn said proudly.
"Iron Hammer," Gendry answered.
"Good. Fitting," Fatty said. "Now rest. Tomorrow morning, meet me outside the city. We'll head to the Wolf Pack's real camp—the Den. The Captain will inspect you himself."
---
The next morning dawned bright over Myr. The city shimmered in golden light as Gendry and Qyburn followed Fatty beyond the walls, toward the Disputed Lands.
The countryside changed rapidly—beautiful marble structures giving way to dusty paths, scrub grass, and rising hills. After a half-hour's walk, a cluster of banners became visible on the horizon.
Fatty puffed out his chest in pride.
"There she is," he said. "The Wolf Pack's Den."
It was a small but well-organized camp. Tents arranged neatly. Palisades built with sharp stakes. Sentries patrolled with long spears and crossbows. Armor gleamed in the morning light. And the wolf banners—gray on white—snapped sharply in the wind.
No chaos. No drunken brawls. No disorder.
This was not a band of cutthroats.
This was a company with discipline. A company with rules. A company with a code.
Fatty smiled.
"Few we may be… but we still carry the blood of real soldiers."
Gendry felt something tighten in his chest.
It felt like fate.
Like he was stepping into a story that had waited years for him to arrive.