The sea was calm that morning. With the wind soft against its sails, the Telescope cut smoothly across the waters, gliding along the shores of the Stormlands before curving toward the distant Stepstones. From there, the ship would continue on to Myr—far from courts, crowns, and the noise of Westeros.
Despite the ship's speed, the deck barely swayed. The quiet rhythm of the waves was soothing, almost meditative. On the aft deck, two figures sat opposite each other: one old, one young. One thin as parchment, the other built like a seasoned bull. Maester Qyburn, the exiled scholar whose name was half-whispered and half-feared, and Gendry, the broad-shouldered blacksmith boy who had worked in King's Landing since childhood.
Between them, a small pot of heating stones warmed a kettle of fruit juice. Qyburn poured a steaming cup and slid it toward Gendry with a faint smile.
"Forgive my boldness, child," Qyburn said, voice rasped with age yet sharp as ever. "But I have long suspected you were born of a… spirited and romantic encounter."
Gendry didn't take offense—he seldom did regarding this topic. "No need to tiptoe around it, Master Qyburn," he replied, raising the cup in thanks. "I'm a bastard. The truth is like a sharp blade—sooner or later, everyone gets cut by it."
Qyburn chuckled. He enjoyed the boy's directness. "You speak with remarkable acceptance.Most spend years agonizing over the nature of their birth."
"Nothing to agonize over," Gendry said, shrugging his thick shoulders. "Life is what it is."
Qyburn toyed with the parchment model of a human figure he always carried, its limbs bendable, its muscles drawn with precision. "You know," he began, lifting the model toward the light, "I do not study noble histories as the Citadel expects of its Maesters. But I do study bodies—bone length, muscle density, the shaping of the skull, and the influence of bloodlines."
He tapped the model lightly.
"Young men born of noble houses generally enjoy better diets, training, and living conditions. And there are traits that run deep in certain lineages—tall stature, strong builds, certain facial structures. A lion, a stag, a direwolf—they each pass their signs to their offspring. When I look at you—your height, your frame, the straightness of your teeth, the way your muscles sit beneath your skin—it is clear you were not born of common stock."
Gendry blinked once. He didn't know Qyburn could read bodies like a book.
"A well-trained eye can guess much," Qyburn continued. "Your clothes are coarse, your boots cheap, and you carry no jewelry. Clearly, you were not raised as a legitimate noble son. And yet… your strength is unmistakable."
Gendry chuckled. "So you're not only a Maester—you're a detective."
Qyburn tapped his own chest proudly. "A Maester must observe the world, my boy. And I find myself growing fond of you. Frank, fearless, unpretentious. Qualities of a man who knows himself."
He paused, eyes softening.
"We are alike, you and I. I, too, am a bastard."
Gendry looked up with surprise.
Qyburn chuckled. "Oh yes. When I was young and other children called me 'bastard,' I would rage and cry, thinking myself cursed. I was not nearly as composed as you."
"What happened?" Gendry asked, despite himself.
"A small noble house near Oldtown," Qyburn began, leaning back as if unrolling memories. "My mother was a washerwoman by the river. My father—the lord—died before I was grown. My elder brothers despised the idea of a washerwoman's son becoming a knight. They gave me three choices: a sum of coins and exile, the Wall, the Citadel, or joining the Faith."
He laughed bitterly.
"The Wall was cold, the Faith dull, so I chose the Citadel. I lacked your physique, else perhaps I might have become a blacksmith myself."
Gendry smiled. "You? With a hammer?"
"Why not?" Qyburn grinned. "Every man fantasizes about being a warrior at least once."
His expression turned thoughtful.
"I forged chains, studied healing, anatomy, the mysteries. I thought I would spend the rest of my life surrounded by books and ravens. But some of my experiments were deemed… questionable."
"You were expelled," Gendry said quietly.
"I was." Qyburn sighed. "And perhaps the Archmaesters were right to fear my work. Yet I was not driven by cruelty. I sought to understand the essence of the world."
"What do you mean—essence?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn's eyes gleamed with a strange fire. "Magic, child. Magic and the vast diversity in the veins of men. The Citadel tells you the world is ruled by reason and logic. But I have seen too many things to believe that."
He leaned forward, voice lowering.
"Magic is what shifts the climates. What awakens dragons. What breathes through ancient bloodlines—Targaryens, Starks, Martells, Baratheons. Why is it that certain families produce warriors who seem touched by something otherworldly?"
Gendry swallowed, unsure how to respond.
"With the right study," Qyburn whispered, "one could awaken power in the body. Create warriors beyond imagination."
"That sounds like madness," Gendry said honestly. "You should be cautious."
"Oh, I know," Qyburn sighed with a tired smile. "But those days are past. Right now, I must earn my bread. Perhaps join a sellsword company. No one desires a sorcerer—but a healer is always welcome."
Gendry relaxed slightly. This man walked on the cracks between brilliance and danger.
"What did you mean earlier about magical bloodlines?" he asked.
"Ah," Qyburn said, delighted. "Most lords boast of divine blood, yet only a few houses show true signs of inherited power. The Targaryens rode dragons for generations. The Rhoynar, whose legacy lives in House Martell, once commanded rivers. House Baratheon warriors have always fought like living storms. And some bloodlines"—he paused—"should never be provoked."
"Like who?" Gendry asked.
"Lord Tywin's knight… the giant of a man said to be seven feet tall."
Gendry flinched. "The Mountain."
"Yes. A man shaped like that does not come from mere chance."
Gendry stared out at the waves, uneasy. Men like that haunted the world.
"But we are far from such monsters," Qyburn said casually. "And farther still from noble politics."
A silence settled between them until Qyburn spoke again, voice lower.
"Still… I suspect we might see Westeros again. And when we do, the realm will likely be drowning in war."
Gendry turned sharply. "War? You truly think so?"
"It is not only my belief," Qyburn said. "Many can see the storm brewing. King Robert won the throne, yet failed to secure his victory. He gave Stannis Dragonstone—an honor, yet an insult. Gave Storm's End to Renly—out of affection, not law."
He sighed.
"Renly grows proud because of it. Stannis grows bitter. And Robert? He drinks, hunts, and leaves governance to Jon Arryn and the Lannisters."
Gendry frowned. "Surely someone in King's Landing can convince him to plan for succession, alliances—something?"
"There are many clever men in the capital," Qyburn admitted. "But none who can sway our merry, stubborn King. He loves wine, loves women… and leaves tomorrow to chance."
His voice dropped lower.
"The realm is held together by an alliance of wolf, fish, eagle, stag, and lion. But alliances decay. All it takes is one spark. One ambitious soul seeking the Iron Throne."
"You're talking about Renly," Gendry said softly.
"I hope not," Qyburn replied. "Being from the Reach, I know how closely Renly ties himself to Highgarden. Meanwhile, the Tyrells are slowly being shut out of the inner circle. Such families rarely remain silent."
Gendry exhaled. Everything Qyburn said rang with truth—and danger.
"You shouldn't speak of these things loudly," he warned. "In King's Landing, they'd cut your head off for less."
Qyburn smiled faintly. "My old head has survived many things. But you… you must be more careful. You are young. And unlike me, you still have a future ahead."
The old man wrapped his cloak tighter around himself as a breeze swept across the deck.
"Besides," he added lightly, "who would bother paying attention to a disgraced Maester and a lowborn blacksmith boy? Even the spiders and ravens have more important prey."
Gendry didn't answer. But as he gazed across the open sea, he felt a strange weight settle in his chest.
War. Magic. Bloodlines.
He had wanted only to hammer steel, to build something with his hands… yet fate seemed determined to draw him into something much larger. Something dangerous.
And perhaps, as Qyburn had hinted, something tied to his own mysterious parentage.
But that was a truth for another day.
For now, the ship sailed on—toward Myr, toward uncertainty, and toward the first whisperings of a storm that would one day swallow all of Westeros.