The winds of Myr were gentle, a welcome change after the turmoil of their voyage. As *The Telescope* docked in the bustling harbor, Gendry and Qyburn disembarked, stepping into a city of breathtaking beauty. Myr was a city of artisans, built from white marble that gleamed in the sun, its streets adorned with elegant fountains and shimmering glass mirrors.
"Heed my words, boy," Captain Dunster said before they parted ways. "Myr is full of thieves. Guard your belongings, and find a reputable inn." Gendry politely declined the captain's offer of further assistance but thanked him for his kindness. Dunster left them with a contact address, a promise of help should they ever need it.
Stepping onto the solid ground of Myr, Gendry felt a profound sense of relief. Here, beyond the Stepstones, the power of the Iron Throne was a distant shadow. This was a paradise for exiles, a place where a man could disappear and remake himself. After the Battle of the Redgrass Field, Aegor Rivers and the last of the Blackfyres had fled to these shores. After the Trident, Daenerys and Viserys had done the same.
The port was a cacophony of commerce. "Come, buy! The work of a true artisan!" a merchant cried. "The finest lenses, a perfect gift!" another shouted. "Fine carpets, only one gold dragon!" Children, no older than ten, hawked paintings and trinkets. "Delicate paintings, worth more than gold, today for only five silvers!" In the Free Cities, merchants were held in higher esteem than warriors.
After securing their few possessions in a clean, safe inn, Gendry and Qyburn made their way toward the city's east side, where the mercenary market was located. The streets were filled with sellswords of every stripe, lounging in taverns or leaning against walls, their swords sheathed and their faces bored.
"These lace-makers and carpet-sellers fight their wars with gold," Qyburn grumbled. "And so they cannot live without men like these." Myr's handicrafts were famous across the known world—its fine carpets, intricate lace, and flawless lenses could fetch prices to rival the spices of the east.
"It's also the political situation," Gendry added, looking at a group of sellswords haggling with a portly merchant. "They need soldiers to fight over the Disputed Lands and to guard their caravans."
"And it is cheaper to hire sellswords with gold than to raise and maintain an army of their own," Qyburn replied with a cynical smile. "The lords of Westeros may look down on them, but here, gold is king."
Near the Sunrise Gate, they found the Mercenary Square. The entrance was a simple, ochre-red gate guarded by two weary old veterans leaning on their longspears, their fighting days long behind them. Inside, the square was an elliptical courtyard that resembled a chaotic marketplace. Tents of various colors and conditions were pitched like mushrooms, and in the center stood a raised platform where employers could announce their needs. The flags of dozens of small companies fluttered from spear-tips.
Gendry saw Lyseni with their fair skin, Tyroshi with their garishly dyed beards, olive-skinned Myrmen, and Pentoshi who could have passed for men of Westeros. It was a stew of nations, all bound by the promise of coin.
"Two swords needed to escort my employer's son on a tour of Essos!" an arrogant-looking steward shouted from the platform. "Terms to be discussed!"
"Me!" "Here!" "I'll do it!" Hands shot up from the crowd below. Escorting a rich boy's tour was easy, safe work. The job was filled in moments.
"A great contract!" the steward announced next, his voice booming. "A spice caravan from the far east needs an escort to Qohor! Three times the normal rate for every sword, and a bonus of five lovely Lysene bedwarmers for the commander!"
The square fell silent. The journey was long, the destination far, and the route passed near Dothraki lands. Even the promise of wealth and women was not enough to tempt the sellswords. "Damn you!" someone finally shouted. "For that kind of risk, go find the Golden Company or the Windblown!" The crowd erupted in a chorus of insults.
Gendry and Qyburn began to walk through the tents, looking for a company that might have them. The rejections were swift and blunt.
"You're too young, boy. And your friend is too old," one captain grunted, not even looking up from sharpening his axe.
"We don't take on children," another said, eyeing Gendry's build with a flicker of interest. "The battlefield is no place for you. We could take you for a third of the pay, maybe. But the old man is of no use to us."
"You have no experience," a third told them. "We'd have to train you. You can join, but you'll work for a year with no pay."
Gendry didn't argue. He knew that a skilled smith and a trained physician would be valuable to any company, but these men lacked the patience or foresight to see it. In a remote corner of the square, they found an ancient, weather-beaten tent. From a pole outside, a tattered banner hung limp in the still air. On it was the faded image of a wolf pack in full gallop.
"That flag," Gendry said, pointing.
Qyburn stared at it, a look of surprise on his face. "The Wolf Pack Company," he breathed. "It was founded by Northmen who came across the sea centuries ago. I did not think it still existed."