"You are something of a celebrity now, Gendry," Qyburn quipped from across the small cabin. The boy's savage performance with the warhammer had earned him the awe and respect of everyone aboard *The Telescope*.
"The pirates offered surrender," Gendry said with a shrug, flexing his bandaged left arm. "But you would have been thrown to the sharks, and I would have been sold to the Perfumed Gardens in Lys. I didn't see much of a choice." He was strong, and the wound was already beginning to heal. For the Myrish crew, surrender might have meant a ransom, but for a boy from Westeros, the outcome would have been slavery.
"True enough," Qyburn said with a thin smile. "But your victory has been profitable." He knew Captain Dunster, the other passengers, and the crew had showered the boy with gifts. Gendry's courage had saved them from ruin and death.
"The battle was not what I imagined," Gendry admitted, his mind replaying the fight. "We were lucky. If their leader hadn't been so arrogant and split his forces, we would have stood no chance. Twenty men attacking at once would have overwhelmed us. And if they had been wearing proper armor..."
"War is a dangerous game, Gendry, but luck is a part of it," Qyburn replied. "A battle is not a tourney field surrounded by flowers and smiling ladies. A puddle of water, a patch of mud, a poorly cooked meal—any small thing can change the outcome. As long as they are men, they have limits." His eyes lingered on Gendry. "The histories speak of warriors who were like gods, but that was centuries ago. The Dragonlords of Valyria, the princes of the Rhoyne—they wielded magic as well as steel. Now, all that is left is the war of mortals."
He paused, studying the boy. "I had thought to make you my apprentice. Medicine is not as glorious as knighthood, but it is a safe and honest living. But now… I see you were born for the battlefield. That is a rare and terrible talent."
"Being a warrior is well and good," Gendry said, "but I would rather live a long life. Learning medicine is a good thing."
"It would be my pleasure," Qyburn beamed. "But I can teach you more than just medicine and poisons. I know history, law, poetry, and the Old Tongue of Valyria."
"That sounds more complicated than blacksmithing," Gendry said, a smile touching his lips. He felt a sense of opportunity. A maester of such wide learning, disgraced and without other loyalties, was a powerful tool. He could bind this man to his own cause.
"And more interesting," Qyburn continued. "I find I am quite happy to help shape a great warrior. Many think fighting is a brute's trade, but a true warrior can be a man of many talents. Like Prince Rhaegar."
"Rhaegar," Gendry repeated, his interest piqued. "The prince who died at the Trident." The dragon prince was long dead, but his ghost still haunted the Seven Kingdoms.
"I was a young man then, powerless to do anything but read the reports from the Citadel," Qyburn said, a nostalgic look in his eyes. "In those days, Prince Rhaegar and our own fat king were the brightest stars in the sky. Of course, there was also the Sword of the Morning, the Quiet Wolf, and Ser Barristan. But Robert and Rhaegar were two different kinds of men. Rhaegar was melancholic, a man who preferred his harp to a sword. Women wept for his sad songs and his beauty. Robert was the Laughing Storm reborn, a man who craved joy and laughter, hunting, drinking, and fighting. He was generous, brave, and a terror on the battlefield."
"What happened?" Gendry pressed.
"What happened is the story all of Westeros knows. Two proud warriors became entangled over a woman of Stark blood, and the whole realm paid the price for a love affair gone wrong. What truly passed between them, no one can say for sure."
"The Mad King and his son lost the throne," Gendry stated simply.
"Yes. In the end, it came down to the Trident. Robert's warhammer crushed Rhaegar's chest, and all of the prince's songs and prophecies became meaningless. Military failure makes all else irrelevant. Still, it was remarkable that the prince wounded Robert as badly as he did. His status was too high, his interests too varied. He was not a born killer."
Gendry pondered that. A tourney was not a battlefield. Rhaegar had not dedicated his life to the singular art of killing.
"It does not matter whether it was Robert or Rhaegar," Qyburn said, a strange fire burning in his eyes. "Music, poetry, medicine—these are mere embellishments for a great man. The only thing that matters is to win. To be harder, more fearless, and more cunning than your enemy. Prince Rhaegar forgot that, and so he lost." The old maester leaned forward. "Now, a request. Would you do an old man the honor of removing your mask?"
Gendry hesitated for a moment, then untied the leather straps. He pulled the iron mask away. The face beneath was one of sharp planes and a strong jaw, framed by short, black hair. But it was the deep blue eyes that held Qyburn transfixed.
"By the gods," the maester breathed, his mouth agape. "I should have known." He had seen Robert. He had seen Renly. This boy's face was a younger, harder version of theirs, destined for greater strength than either.
"It's a bit obvious, I know," Gendry said wryly.
"Forgive my earlier words about the king," Qyburn stammered, recovering himself. "Your temperament is so different. The king is all bluster and pride. If not for that, I would have guessed sooner. The blood runs strong."
"It does not matter. The king has forgotten me." Gendry had no interest in meddling in the affairs of Westeros. Not yet.
"Then that is for the best," Qyburn said, his mind racing. "A bastard and a disgraced maester, in a forgotten corner of the world. We shall bring some new excitement to the great game. And to those damned Lannisters." He spat the name.
"The Lannisters?" Gendry asked, puzzled.
"After the Citadel expelled me, I sought patronage from Lord Tywin. I thought a man so cold and pragmatic, a man who would sack a city, might fund my research. But he turned me away. He has the pride of an aristocrat and despises men like me." A bitter look crossed his face. "But that is of no importance now. Compared to my research, guiding an invincible warrior to his destiny is a far more fulfilling pursuit." Qyburn's eyes were alight with ambition. He looked at Gendry not as a boy, but as a vessel for greatness. He had the blood of the Dragon, the Stag, and the First Men. And what of the king's trueborn children? Golden-haired, all of them. The rumors of the queen's infidelity were old, but seeing this boy…
"I have not seen them, and I do not know," Gendry said coldly, cutting off the unasked question. Let the truth of that particular secret be revealed by another.
Qyburn understood. He bowed his head, a gesture of profound respect. "It would be an honor to serve you, and to be your mentor. Let us work for your cause… Your Highness."
"The honor is mine, Qyburn," Gendry replied, his voice steady. He had his first follower. Across the sea, the Targaryen heirs plotted their return. He was now a third player in the game.