The wind in Myr was gentle as well. After the Far-Seer docked at the harbor, Gendry and Qyburn disembarked and stepped into this new and beautiful city. Myr was a city of craftsmen, built with remarkable elegance. White marble, fountains, and glass mirrors shaped a cityscape that gleamed in the light.
"Take a bit of advice, lad. Myr's full of thieves. Keep an eye on your luggage when you leave," Captain Dunstan warned Gendry as they parted, also suggesting he find a decent inn.
Gendry politely declined the captain's invitation but thanked him for the kindness. Captain Dunstan left them a contact address, telling them they could seek his help if they ever needed it.
Stepping onto Myrish soil, Gendry felt far more at ease. Aside from Pentos, the Iron Throne's power was hard to project in any substantial way into the Free Cities; this was a haven for fugitives.
After the Battle of the Redgrass Field, Daemon Blackfyre had died in battle, and "Bittersteel" Aegor Rivers, along with members of House Blackfyre, set out on the road of exile, fleeing to Tyrosh, the homeland of Daemon's wife. After the War of the Usurper, Daenerys and her siblings were likewise forced to wander from place to place in exile.
"Come and buy! Paintings by a master!"
"The finest lenses, perfect as gifts!"
"Top-quality carpets, just one gold coin!"
"Paintings, delicate works worth more than gold. Now only five silver pieces!"
The harbor was crowded with Myrish vendors calling out to passing travelers, many of them children. Most Free Cities were commercial hubs, where merchants were seen as more honorable than warriors.
Myr was considered one of the most advanced of the Free Cities, famous for its art and learning. Gendry looked over the goods with interest. They were clearly not the work of true Myrish masters, but they were finely made all the same.
After leaving their belongings at a clean and secure inn, Gendry and Qyburn headed for the sellsword market, located to the east, away from the harbor.
Along the streets of Myr, both men noticed plenty of sellswords loitering about. Many wore old clothes, dark brown woolen cloaks draped over their shoulders, long swords hanging loosely in their scabbards. In a commercial city-state, the presence of both the elderly and children felt oddly unremarkable.
"These lace sellers and carpet merchants fight with gold, so of course they can't do without sellswords," Maester Qyburn muttered.
Myr's handicrafts were renowned throughout the known world: carpets and lace, the finest lenses and telescopes, as well as screens, mirrors, lace, and glass windowpanes sold at prices comparable to eastern spices. Myrish paintings and miniatures were also highly regarded, praised for their vivid style.
"It's the situation, I suppose," Gendry added. "Whether it's seizing the Disputed Lands or sending caravans across long distances, they're necessary. Still, why don't they just raise their own armies?"
"Hiring sellswords with food, gifts, or gold might simply be cheaper," Qyburn replied.
After all, in Westeros, even the wealthiest House Tywin despised these so-called cowards of the Free Cities.
"Gold can't replace a longsword."
"True."
"But, Prince, Sellsword Square is meant for small and medium-sized companies. The great companies all have their own strongholds. Here, we're never going to join the big ones. They don't recruit clients in the market. Clients go directly to them."
"Medium and small companies might be safer. If we don't have luck here, we can always keep looking elsewhere."
The two of them arrived near the Sunrise Gate and caught sight of Sellsword Square. Its gate was ochre-red, guarded by two listless old sellswords holding long spears. They were too old now to face blood and fire, so they had chosen to stand watch here instead.
Even so, the square itself was bustling with activity. Some sellswords were looking for work, while others were clients searching for companies.
Gendry and Qyburn entered Sellsword Square, an oval-shaped enclosure. The place felt like a haggling marketplace. Tents stood everywhere, sprouting like mushrooms, while a raised platform occupied the center, allowing employers to climb up and shout out their offers. Gendry noticed that each sellsword Company had planted its own banner high, flags fluttering from the tips of long spears.
The origins of the sellswords were just as varied. Pale, slender figures were Lysenes. Those with purple or red beards and hair were mostly Tyroshi. Olive-skinned men were Myrish, while those who most resembled Westerosi came from Pentos.
Olive-skinned Myrish free folk were bargaining with sellsword captains, while others sat nearby sharpening their weapons, spears and longswords alike. Their arms and armor, for the most part, were inferior to those of Westerosi regular troops.
"Two sellswords wanted! Escort our lord's child on a journey through Essos! Terms to be discussed!" a haughty slave steward shouted from the platform.
Traveling across Essos was an expensive undertaking, something only the children of nobles or wealthy merchants could afford.
"Me!"
"Me!"
"Me!"
Sellswords below the platform eagerly raised their hands. Escorting a noble's child on a journey was, relatively speaking, a simple task.
The bidding ended quickly, with two sellswords securing the job.
"A big contract! Rendezvous near Qohor with a spice caravan coming from the far east! Triple the usual pay per sellsword, and the Company gets five beautiful Lys slaves as an extra reward!"
Another tempting offer.
The square fell silent at once. The journey was too long and too distant. Worse still were the cursed Dothraki, who occasionally crossed the Rhoyne. This task carried a real risk of death.
"Fuck that!"
"For a job this dangerous, you should go find the Golden Company or the Windblown!"
Once the sellswords recovered from the shock, curses erupted across the square. Sellswords might be greedy, but they were not fools.
The square descended into noise and disorder as Gendry began moving along the rows of tents, searching for a sellsword Company that might suit them.
"You're too young, boy, and you've got no sellsword experience. And your companion is far too old!"
"We don't recruit children or the elderly. You've got a decent build, lad, but the battlefield is too dangerous for you. If you're willing to take a third of the pay, we might consider it. As for the old man beside you, our apologies."
"You're young and inexperienced. Training you would cost us money. You can join, but there's a one-year apprenticeship, unpaid."
Gendry and Qyburn had not even had the chance to show their skills before being reasonably rejected by several sellsword companies. Gendry could not be bothered to argue. Though one was old and the other young, the roles of smith's apprentice and healer were in high demand among sellsword Companies. They simply lacked the patience or sincerity to take them on.
In a remote corner of Sellsword Square, Gendry spotted an ancient tent. Its banner depicted a pack of wolves charging forward.
"That's it!"
"The Wolf Pack," Qyburn said. "It was founded by northerners who crossed the sea long ago. I never expected it to still exist."