The sea was calm and the winds were fair. *The Telescope*, though sailing fast, cut smoothly through the waves. Its course would take them down the coast of the Stormlands, past the volatile Stepstones, and onward to the Free City of Myr. In the dim light of a cabin, an old man and a young boy, the disgraced maester and the runaway blacksmith, sat across from one another.
"Forgive my presumption, child," Qyburn began, pouring Gendry a cup of hot, spiced fruit juice. "But I surmise you are the product of a… spirited and highborn liaison."
"You don't have to be indirect, Qyburn. I'm a bastard," Gendry said, his voice even. "There's no point in fearing the truth. It finds us all sooner or later." He did not mind the question. Qyburn was a man of vast and peculiar knowledge, one of the few in the world who would dare to ask so directly.
"It seems my guess was correct," Qyburn said, a pleased look in his eyes. "You need not be ashamed. I do not study the histories of noble houses, but I do study anatomy, bloodlines, and heredity. The high lords generally enjoy good food and fine living, which, combined with their ancestral blood, makes them tall and strong. The lion, the stag, the direwolf—they are all known for their formidable physiques." He gestured with the anatomical model in his hand.
"By observing the set of a man's teeth, the strength of his frame, the fullness of his muscles, and the quality of his clothes, one can often tell a noble from a commoner. You are tall and well-built, yet you travel alone. Your clothes are cheap, you wear no adornments, and no noble lord would allow his trueborn son to become a blacksmith. The answer was obvious."
"You have a keen eye, not just for medicine," Gendry praised. The man was undeniably shrewd.
"I find myself appreciating you more and more, Gendry. You are frank and fearless. That is the mark of a strong man," Qyburn said with a genuine smile. "In fact, we are quite alike. I am a bastard myself. When I was a boy, I took the word as a slight, a humiliation that brought me anger and tears. In that, you are already stronger than I was." Qyburn leaned back and began his own story.
"I was born to a minor house near Oldtown. The Reach, as you know, is the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms, full of proud and petty lords. My mother was a washerwoman who found herself pregnant with the lord's child. My father was long dead by the time I was a youth. My trueborn brothers gave me three choices, as they would never allow a washerwoman's son to become a knight. A pouch of gold, the Wall, the Citadel, or the Faith. The Wall was too cold and the Faith too dull, so I chose to forge a maester's chain. Of course, I did not have your physique, or I might have become a smith myself."
"A fascinating life, Qyburn," Gendry said.
"I had forged many links for my chain. I thought I would spend my life in the Citadel, but I was expelled. I admit, some of my experiments were… unconventional. But they concerned the very nature of the world!"
"The nature of the world?" Gendry asked, intrigued.
"Precisely, child! The nature of this world is magic and diversity, not the tidy 'truths' and sciences the grey sheep of the Citadel preach. Magic is what stirs the world, what causes the seasons to shift, what allows dragons to fly. It is the source of the North's legends of White Walkers and the power in your miraculous bloodlines." A fiery, obsessive glow lit Qyburn's eyes. "But power also comes from within. The human body is a treasure. The combination of medicine and magic cannot only heal the sick but create warriors who cannot be defeated."
"That sounds like madness," Gendry cautioned.
"It is perhaps comical to speak of it now," Qyburn said, his ambition receding into a self-deprecating sigh. "Having been cast out, I must first find a way to eat. I doubt I will join a sellsword company. No one needs a sorcerer, but every company needs a healer."
"What did you mean by 'miraculous bloodlines'?" Gendry pressed. This was a topic of great interest to him.
"Most noble houses claim descent from gods or heroes—the Greenhand, the Storm God, and so on—but only a few have shown true power. The blood of the Targaryens, the Baratheons, the Starks, and the Martells all seem to hold a kind of magic. The Targaryens rode dragons. The Rhoynish blood of the Martells could once call forth rivers. The warriors of House Baratheon are like a storm given human form. If these bloodlines could be fully awakened, they might create warriors of legend. But those are not people I can experiment on. There are gifted commoners, of course. I have heard Lord Tywin has a man in his service who stands near eight feet tall." He was speaking, of course, of the Mountain.
"You speak of war," Gendry noted, changing the subject. "Do you foresee one?"
"It is more than a guess, Gendry. The king won his war but failed to secure his victory. He gave Dragonstone to Stannis for his service, and Storm's End to Renly out of love. But should the youngest son inherit over the second? There is no precedent. It only makes the younger brother arrogant with favor while the elder seethes with resentment. And the king himself? He holds the Crownlands. By the Seven, he could have united the Crownlands and the Stormlands under his direct rule, and the royal house would be unmatched. But he did not. Robert is king in name, but in truth, he is merely the leader of a grand alliance."
"Surely there are men on his council who see this?" Gendry asked.
"There are many, but I doubt any of them could persuade our proud king of anything. Wine and women are his only true passions. The rest he leaves to the gods and to old Jon Arryn. The realm was handed to Lord Arryn, the court to the Lannisters. The Usurper was too eager to prove himself king, and so became the Merry King, who gives no thought to tomorrow." Qyburn paused, a dark look in his eyes. "But this is just speculation. The alliance of the wolf, the fish, the falcon, and the stag is still a powerful one. I only fear that some ambitious men, their hearts burning with wildfire, covet that iron chair that so easily claims the lives of those who sit it."
"You are talking about Renly," Gendry stated.
"I hope not. But I am from the Reach. I know Lord Renly is very close to Highgarden, and House Tyrell has been pushed to the margins of power for too long."
Gendry considered it. Stannis, for all his resentment, was loyal to his brother. But Renly was ambitious, and with the wealthy and powerful Tyrells feeling slighted, they would not remain idle forever.
"You should speak more softly, Qyburn. In King's Landing, such talk would cost you your head."
"You are right, child. My old head is not worth much, but yours is still young. But we are both nobodies now, a runaway blacksmith and a disgraced maester. I do not think even the ravens or the spiders will take any notice of us."