The winds of Myr were gentle. When the Spyglass finally dropped anchor in the harbor, Gendry and Qyburn disembarked into a gleaming, sunlit city. Myr was a jewel of artisans, built of white marble, chiming fountains, and shimmering glass.
"A word of advice, lad: Myr is thick with cutpurses. Keep a close hand on your bags," Captain Dunstan warned them as they parted ways at the docks. Gendry politely declined the captain's offer to escort them to an inn, but he graciously accepted a folded slip of parchment bearing a contact address. Should they ever require passage or aid, Dunstan owed them a life debt.
Stepping onto the solid stone of Myr, a profound sense of security settled over Gendry's shoulders. Aside from the whispers of the Spider's little birds, the Iron Throne could project no true power into the Free Cities. This was a paradise for exiles. It was here that Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers and the remnants of House Blackfyre had fled after Daemon Blackfyre fell at the Redgrass Field. It was here that the last Targaryen siblings still wandered, running from the Usurper's knives.
"Come buy! Masterwork paintings!"
"The finest lenses! A perfect gift!"
"Exquisite carpets, only one gold dragon!"
"Miniatures! Delicate brushwork worth its weight in gold, yours for five silver stags!"
The harbor teemed with Myrish peddlers and ragged children hawking their wares. In the Free Cities, commerce was king, and a fat merchant was afforded far more respect than a bleeding warrior. Myr was considered one of the most advanced of the Free Cities, celebrated for its arts and learning. Gendry eyed the goods with quiet interest. They likely weren't true masterworks, but the craftsmanship was undeniably fine.
After securing their heavy gear and newly won loot in a clean, heavily fortified inn, the two set out toward the eastern district, moving away from the harbor.
The streets were dotted with idle sellswords. Most wore battered ringmail hidden beneath heavy brown wool cloaks, their longswords resting easily in their scabbards. In a city of merchants, the sight of heavily armed men walking beside an old man and a boy drew little attention.
"These lace-peddlers fight their wars with gold, which is why they can never rid themselves of the sellswords," Qyburn remarked dryly, eyeing the mercenaries. Myrish exports were legendary: carpets, delicate lace, peerless lenses, spyglasses, and clear glass window panes that sold for the price of rare eastern spices.
"It's just the nature of the board," Gendry replied. "Whether they are fighting over the Disputed Lands or guarding a merchant caravan, they need swords. But with all their wealth, why don't they just raise their own standing armies?"
"It is far more cost-effective to hire a mercenary with bread and gold than to bleed your own citizens," Qyburn answered. It was a philosophy that Westerosi lords, even the unimaginably wealthy Tywin Lannister, found deeply distasteful. Knights despised the calculated cowardice of the Free Cities. "Gold cannot replace a sword."
"Indeed. But remember, Your Grace, this public plaza is for the lesser companies," Qyburn warned as they walked. "The great sellsword companies maintain their own private compounds. We will not find the Golden Company or the Second Sons hawking for contracts in a market square. The magisters go directly to them."
"A smaller company might be safer for us right now anyway," Gendry said. "If we have no luck here, we can keep looking."
Near the Sunrise Gate, they found the mercenary plaza. Its entrance was marked by a towering arch of ochre stone, flanked by two lethargic, grey-haired sellswords leaning on rusted spears. They were men too old to survive the blood and fire of the Disputed Lands, relegated to guarding a gate for coppers.
Inside, the plaza was a chaotic, roaring bazaar. It was an oval courtyard packed with canvas tents sprouting like mushrooms. In the center stood a raised wooden platform where employers shouted their contracts over the din. Above the tents, the banners of dozens of free companies snapped in the wind atop tall pikes.
The sellswords themselves were a chaotic tapestry of Essos: fair-skinned and slender Lyseni, Tyroshi with violently dyed beards, olive-skinned Myrish, and Pentoshi who heavily resembled the Andals of Westeros. Myrish magisters haggled furiously with scarred captains, while mercenaries sat on crates, grinding whetstones down the lengths of their spears and swords. Gendry noted that, overall, the armor and weapons on display were noticeably inferior to those of a proper Westerosi vanguard.
"Seeking two experienced swords to escort our master's son on a tour of the Free Cities! Pay to be negotiated!" an arrogant slaver shouted from the central platform. A leisure tour across Essos was an obscenely expensive luxury reserved only for the highest nobles.
"Here!" "I'll take it!" "Me!" Hands shot up immediately. Babysitting a pampered merchant's son was safe, easy coin. The contract was snatched up by two burly sellswords in moments.
"A grand commission!" another crier bellowed. "We require an escort to ride out past Qohor and meet a spice caravan arriving from the far east! Triple the standard rate for every sword, and five beautiful Lyseni bed-slaves for the captain!"
The plaza instantly fell dead silent. The route was too long, and far too exposed. The Dothraki screamers frequently crossed the River Rhoyne to raid exactly those trade routes. It was a suicide mission.
"Fuck your mother!" a sellsword finally yelled.
"If you want men to ride into a Dothraki khalasar, go hire the Golden Company or the Windblown!" another spat. Sellswords were fiercely greedy, but they were rarely stupid.
Ignoring the shouting from the platform, Gendry and Qyburn began weaving through the tents, looking for a suitable company.
"You're a boy, and you have no battlefield experience. And your companion belongs in a crypt," one scarred captain sneered, waving them off.
"We don't run a nursery or a poorhouse," another captain laughed, eyeing Gendry's broad shoulders. "You've got the build of an ox, boy, but the Disputed Lands will eat you alive. If you're willing to take a third of a man's share, we might let you hold a shield. But the old man stays behind."
"You're young. We'd have to waste time training you," a third muttered. "You can march with us, but you serve a year without pay to earn your keep."
They were dismissed before they could even mention their actual value. A skilled armorer and a master physician were desperately needed in any company, but these lesser captains lacked the patience to look past a boy's age and an old man's wrinkles. Gendry didn't bother arguing with them. Let them keep their blind ignorance.
Finally, in a dusty, neglected corner of the plaza, Gendry spotted a weathered canvas tent. The banner snapping above it bore the faded image of a pack of running wolves.
"Look at that," Qyburn murmured, his pale eyes narrowing in recognition. "The Wolf Pack. Founded by men of the North who crossed the Narrow Sea generations ago. I am surprised they still exist."