The Telescope glided into calmer waters after escaping the Stepstones. For the first time since the pirate attack, the sailors allowed themselves to breathe. Captain Dunster, shaken to his bones, barked orders with the wild-eyed urgency of a man who had seen death too closely.
The ship did not slow its speed until the towering walls of Tyrosh appeared on the horizon.
When at last the vessel anchored, the captain nearly collapsed with relief. "Seven save me… I thought we'd never see land again," he muttered before hurrying off to supervise the resupply.
Gendry stepped onto the deck and took in his surroundings with wonder. Tyrosh spread before him like a gemstone set in the sea—loud, colorful, and ostentatious.
"So lively…" he murmured.
The harbor bustled with activity. Ships of every size jostled for space, their crews shouting orders in half a dozen languages. Slaves with sun-browned shoulders hauled crates, each step driven by the crack of overseers' whips. It was a brutal rhythm, yet efficient.
Tyrosh's defenders loomed above it all.
The city's inner walls were forged from fused black dragonstone—dark, sharp-edged, and ancient beyond measure. Valyrian craft. The walls shimmered strangely under the sun, swallowing light rather than reflecting it.
At the mouth of the harbor rose the Weeping Tower. Within the city, the famed Fountain of the Wine God sprayed colored water in constant festivity.
Gendry had never seen anything like it.
King's Landing—crowded, filthy, and familiar—felt like a dull little village compared to this.
At the docks, Gendry's eyes roamed over the crowds. There were dark-skinned Summer Islanders; olive-skinned Dornish and Myrmen; pale Lyseni dressed in silks; and Tyroshi merchants, loud and flamboyant, with brightly colored hair.
No, flamboyant was an understatement.
Tyroshi wore their hair like battle standards. Blue, green, maroon, pink, scarlet, violet—every shade imaginable. Some dyed their beards to match. Others wore feathers or sparkling gems braided into curls.
They made King's Landing courtiers look plain as potatoes.
"These walls…" Gendry whispered.
He had never seen stone like this—black as midnight, smooth as glass, yet unnatural in shape, like the ribcage of some colossal beast.
Qyburn, standing beside him at the bow, smiled like a tutor pleased with his pupil's reaction.
"Those are black walls of ancient Valyria," he explained. "Back when Valyrians shaped stone with magic and dragonfire. They cast their military fortresses, towers, and palaces in such a manner."
Gendry stared in awe.
Valyria had always been a myth to him—a land of dragons and Doom, of smoking mountains and sorcery. Seeing even remnants of that era stirred something deep inside him.
"Magnificent ruins," he murmured.
"Oh, these are just the small ones," Qyburn replied eagerly. "If you think Tyrosh is impressive, wait until you see Volantis. Its Black Walls dwarf these. And the city's population is the largest in the Free Cities."
"I didn't meet many Volantenes in King's Landing."
"Of course. Volantis concerns itself with ruling, taxing, and enslaving—trade is secondary. But if someday we travel there, you will witness the greatest surviving relics of Valyria."
"I'd like that," Gendry said.
Qyburn's eyes glimmered with fascination—part scholar, part madman.
"Valyria's triumphs came from blood and fire, from their mastery of ancient magics. People claim magic has died, but they are fools. It sleeps. It ebbs and flows like the tides. When the dragons vanished, magic waned. When dragons return…"
He let the implication hang.
"Have you ever seen magic?" Gendry asked.
"I've… glimpsed hints." Qyburn's voice grew thoughtful. "But true magic? No. Still, I believe it can be awakened again—though not easily. It cannot be forced. The Targaryens tried to hatch dragons countless times, only to create tragedies."
Gendry chuckled. "And if I ever awaken 'Storm's Blood' and summon the Rhoyne River itself, I suppose you want a share of that glory?"
Qyburn placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. "My boy, I would be honored to be the footnote in your legend."
They both laughed and returned to the cabin.
Inside, Qyburn unfurled a map of Essos across the table.
"Your—" Qyburn paused, then corrected himself with a humble bow, "—Gendry, listen closely now. Prosperity in Essos is built upon one thing: trade. And trade is built upon slaves."
Gendry frowned.
Qyburn tapped the parchment.
"We left Tyrosh. Soon we will reach Myr. These two, along with Lys, once formed the Triarchy—a powerful alliance. But greed splintered them long ago. They now compete and sabotage each other relentlessly."
His finger traced outward on the map.
"Pentos lies to the north, a weak city, nearly subjugated by Braavos. Volantis, oldest of the Free Cities, styles itself a second Valyria—greedy, arrogant, and friendless. Braavos, by contrast, is independent, wealthy, and deadly."
"What about Lorath? Qohor? Norvos?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn waved a hand. "Minor players. Qohor has fine smiths. Norvos has axes and beards. Lorath has fog and fish."
Gendry snorted.
"The true game," Qyburn continued, "is played between these six: Tyrosh, Myr, Lys, Volantis, Braavos, Pentos. Their rivalries shape the entire eastern continent."
He traced a long river across the map.
"And then there is the Rhoyne. The Dothraki cross it often, raiding without mercy. Qohor holds the land between the Qin and the Ash Rivers. Volantis controls the lower Rhoyne until the Sorrows. Between these lies contested ground infested with river bandits."
Gendry absorbed the information with surprising speed. Qyburn noticed—and smiled with pride.
"That region," Qyburn said, pointing, "is known as the Disputed Lands."
Gendry's eyes narrowed. "Our opportunity?"
"Indeed," Qyburn whispered. "Ownerless land. Ravaged by constant war. A perfect place for a mercenary group to root itself."
Gendry imagined it—the chaos, the violence, the possibilities.
"And the Stepstones?" he asked.
"Also considered unclaimed," Qyburn replied. "Too many forces fight over them. Pirates, sellswords, city-states—they all dip their spoons into the same stew."
Gendry leaned over the map. "If only I had a dragon…"
Qyburn raised an eyebrow. "Every conqueror says that."
Gendry laughed. "Or a better hammer."
That drew a smirk from Qyburn.
Gendry sorted through his newly acquired goods again. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of a purse that was his own.
"A set of black scale armor, no helmet," he said, lifting it. "Took it from the Gold-Tooth pirate."
Scale armor… worn by killers. But now his.
He sifted through coins next.
"Two gold dragons from the Driftmark bastard. Fifty gold coins from Captain Dunster. And all these silver and copper coins…"
He rolled the oval Myrish coins between his fingers, examining the ship stamped on the surface.
"Enough to live comfortably for a long time."
"And survive," Qyburn added.
"And these gifts…" Gendry held up a tapestry, a carved wooden idol, and a bag of spices. "My first real earnings."
"Your first taste of what strength brings," Qyburn said knowingly.
Gendry didn't answer.
Because outside, beyond the deck, the silhouette of Myr finally appeared.
A sprawling city of workshops, towers, domes, and canals. Smoke rose from countless forges. The smell of dye, oils, and perfumes drifted across the water. Artisans and inventors made Myr famous across the world.
Gendry felt something stir inside him.
A sense that his life here—away from Westeros, away from the Red Keep and the alleys of King's Landing—was the start of something new.
Something dangerous.
Something promising.
Something his blood had always pulled him toward.
The Telescope creaked as sailors prepared to dock.
Qyburn gathered the map, tapped it once more, and said softly:
"Remember this, Gendry. Prosperity comes from chaos. And chaos is our ladder."
Gendry tightened his grip on the rail as they neared the port of Myr.
For the first time in his life… he felt he was stepping toward destiny.