After the harrowing encounter in the Stepstones, *The Telescope* did not slow. The terrified Myrish captain was like a spooked bird, pushing his ship at full speed until the high walls of Tyrosh came into view. They docked only long enough to replenish their fresh water and supplies before casting off once more.
From the deck, Gendry gazed upon the great, bustling city. Tyrosh was a fortress, protected by formidable walls at the northeastern edge of the Stepstones. Its inner walls were fused black dragonstone, a testament to its Valyrian origins, and the city itself was far larger than Sunspear, its Dornish neighbor across the sea. Gendry could see ships of every shape and size coming and going from the harbor, and the docks swarmed with slaves hauling cargo under the watchful eyes of their overseers. Having never left King's Landing, the sight of this vibrant, foreign port was a revelation.
He saw people from all corners of the known world. Dark-skinned sailors from the Summer Isles, olive-skinned merchants from Dorne or Myr, and the flamboyant Tyroshi themselves, who loved bright colors and dyed their forked beards and hair in dazzling shades of green, purple, and scarlet.
"Those are the black walls of Old Valyria," Qyburn said, joining him at the ship's bow. "The Dragonlords forged their fortresses from stone and fire." The old maester had begun Gendry's education in earnest, desperately trying to make up for lost years. He had been delighted to discover his new pupil possessed an extraordinary memory and a keen mind.
"Magnificent ruins," Gendry murmured. The Freehold of Valyria had been a civilization ahead of its time. Its sorcerous arts had created wonders the world had never seen since. Even the Targaryens, who had escaped the Doom, were but minor dragonlords, possessing little of the deep magic that had built the empire.
"The black walls of Volantis are grander still," Qyburn continued. "And it is the most populous of all the Free Cities. If we have the chance, we will go there. Then you will see the true legacy of Valyria."
"I would like that," Gendry said.
"Valyria's achievements were inseparable from the arts of blood and fire," Qyburn said, his eyes alight with his familiar, obsessive gleam. "Many say that magic is dead, but I believe it is like the tide, with its ebbs and its flows. When the dragons vanished, the tide of magic receded."
"Have you ever seen it? The stars and fire of true magic?"
"Not yet," Qyburn admitted with a touch of awkwardness. "But I believe it is possible. Magic cannot be forced. The Targaryen kings learned that lesson through one tragedy after another as they tried to hatch their stone eggs. But if that day ever comes for you—if you awaken the storm in your blood and command the power of your ancestors—then I shall be content to stand in the shadow of your glory."
The ship pulled away from the Tyroshi docks, and they returned to their cabin.
"Your Highness," Qyburn began, maintaining his formal posture, "Tyrosh is but one of the Free Cities, yet it is rich and powerful. If we can gain allies in Essos, the potential for you to build your own power base here is immense."
"You need not call me that, Qyburn," Gendry sighed. "I am your apprentice, and a bastard with no prospects."
"Greatness is forged in hardship," the maester insisted. "Your goals must be grand." He unrolled a simple map of Essos. "Trade, especially the trade in slaves, is the lifeblood of this continent. We have left Tyrosh and will soon arrive in Myr. Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys once formed the Triarchy, but that alliance has long since crumbled. The three cities now scheme against each other, and all of them despise the power of Volantis. Pentos is weak, humbled by Braavos. And Braavos stands alone, wealthy, powerful, and independent." He pointed to the land between the cities. "And over all of them hangs the shadow of the Dothraki."
"Qyburn's analysis is sound," Gendry thought, "but he doesn't foresee a dragon queen coming to shatter the slave trade and turn his whole world upside down." The continent of Essos was a chaotic tapestry of rival city-states ruled by wealthy merchants—Archons, Magisters, and Sealords—whose positions were won and lost in games of coin and influence.
"Our opportunity," Qyburn said, his finger landing on a stretch of land south of Myr, "is here. The Disputed Lands."
"And the Stepstones," Gendry added.
"Precisely," Qyburn confirmed. "Since the Triarchy shattered, the Three Daughters have fought endless wars over that territory, which has supported countless sellsword companies. They are lands without masters." The vision was grand, but for now, they were just two men on a ship. Chaos was a ladder, and Gendry knew that finding a place in a mercenary company would be a simple way to disappear while honing his skills.
Later, Gendry took stock of his new possessions. From the Gold-Toothed pirate leader, he had claimed a suit of black scale armor—sadly without a helmet—and the man's brutal warhammer. Plate and scale were the most expensive types of armor; it was a fine prize. He counted his money: two gold dragons from the Bastard of Driftmark, fifty gold pieces from Captain Dunster, and a pouch of scattered silver and copper coins from the other grateful passengers. It was enough to live on for a long time. Along with the coin, he had received other gifts: a fine tapestry, a small amount of rare spices, and a beautifully carved weirwood box. He had earned his first real fortune on the deck of *The Telescope*, not with the sweat of his brow, but with blood and steel.
As the ship sailed into the great bay, the silhouette of Myr's coastline rose from the sea. Gendry put his things away. A new chapter of his life was about to begin.