"Farewell, King's Landing." As the ship pulled away from the harbor, Gendry watched the city recede into the distance. Upstream on the Blackwater Rush, the magnificent royal warships lay at anchor, their golden sails furled. The river was a chaotic dance of deep-sea fishing boats, river barges, merchant cogs from the Free Cities, and elegant swan ships from the Summer Isles.
Slowly, the Red Keep emerged fully on Aegon's High Hill. It was a grim and formidable fortress of seven massive, drum-shaped towers, cavernous keeps, and domed halls, all connected by enclosed bridges. Barracks, dungeons, and granaries were protected by thick curtain walls of pale red stone bristling with arrow slits. High above it all, the crowned stag of House Baratheon flew rampant against the sky.
Gendry was aboard *The Telescope*, a fast, two-masted ship with sixty oars that cut through the water with impressive speed. The Myrish were known to be more reliable than the greedy Tyroshi or the debauched Lyseni, and as the ship was packed with cargo, there were few other passengers. Gendry stood at the rail, turning his face to the waves, the cruel black iron of his mask a stark contrast to the open sea. He let the brisk wind wash over him, as if it could blow away the past.
"I can read some," Gendry replied to the old man who had approached him. "But not well." The man seemed amiable, but something about him set Gendry on edge.
"It matters not. You have a fine physique, a thing to be envied." The old man drew closer, his gaze analytical. He tried to see Gendry's face, but the iron mask obscured all but his deep blue eyes. His gaze traveled down, assessing the boy's build, the proportion of his limbs. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," Gendry lied, adding two years to his age.
"A strong and healthy boy," the old man murmured, almost to himself. "You will be true steel one day. I wager you will grow to be over six feet and four inches."
A chill ran down Gendry's spine. The man's words were strangely clinical, like a butcher appraising livestock.
"Do not be alarmed, child," the old man said with a smile. "I am a scholar and a healer. It is my nature to observe."
"Your name, if I may ask?" Gendry's mouth felt dry.
"A name is but a label. You may call me Qyburn."
Gendry stared at him. No wonder the man was so interested; he was seeing a potential specimen. This was Qyburn, the disgraced maester, a man obsessed with the secrets of life and death. His ethics were monstrous, but his skill was said to be undeniable.
"I am Gendry."
"Gendry," Qyburn mused. "A common name. And yet, your build, your bearing… you are not entirely common. You are very interesting."
"Thank you for the compliment," Gendry said flatly. He was fascinated by Qyburn but knew he held no leverage. For now, it was best to play along.
"Your parents?"
"Dead."
"My condolences. The Stranger comes for us all." Qyburn turned his gaze back toward the fading city. "King's Landing is a sty, but its banners are a captivating sight. The dragon, the stag, the lion. Across the Narrow Sea, it is a world of cheese mongers and butter vendors. I remember when the black banner with the three-headed dragon flew from that castle."
"Then why do you leave?" Gendry asked.
"For my livelihood, child. The lord I served scorned my research. The minor lord who took me in after was too weak to protect me. Between survival and my dreams, I must try my luck in Essos." With that, Qyburn pulled his grey robes tighter. "The wind grows cold. It is too much for an old man. If you wish to speak more, you may find me in my cabin."
As the desperate maester departed, Gendry watched the oars of *The Telescope* rise and fall in perfect unison, the ship skimming across the water like a dragonfly.
"That old man is a strange one, boy," the Myrish captain muttered as he passed. "He's like a piece of dry, brittle wood. I think he envies the fire of your youth."
"Thank you for the warning, Captain," Gendry said. The captain glanced at the iron mask, his curiosity piqued, but he shrugged and moved on, likely assuming it hid some terrible scar.
Gendry watched the endless waves. It was his first time on a ship, his first time truly leaving the only home he had ever known. Thankfully, the sea was calm, and his stomach was steady. He wondered what Varys would think when he learned his pawn had slipped the board. Likely, he wouldn't care much. The Spider had other, more valuable pieces in play.
*King's Landing is a cesspool,* Gendry thought, *and Varys and Littlefinger are two of the largest rats swimming in it.* He went below deck to find the legendary Qyburn. He pushed open the cabin door to find the old man engrossed in a book. The small room smelled of herbs and something else, something metallic and vaguely sweet.
"Ah, I am delighted you have come," Qyburn said, looking up with a joyful smile. "The vitality of youth is a balm to an old man's soul."
Gendry's eyes swept the cabin. It was sparse, containing only a few books and a table laden with surgical instruments: knives, chisels, needles, and vials of milk of the poppy.
"You seem to be a well-trained healer," Gendry observed.
"And you? What was your trade?"
"A blacksmith."
"A fine profession. But the smiths of Myr are masters of their craft; you may find it hard to compete. Medicine, while bloody, is a more respectable and lucrative art. Every city needs a healer." Qyburn gestured to a crude model of a human body on his table, its bones and organs laid bare. It was a testament to a deep, hands-on knowledge of anatomy. "The human body is a profound and endless study. My own years are catching up to me, but perhaps it is time I sowed some seeds for the future."
"Perhaps you should have stayed at the Citadel to continue your research," Gendry suggested.
"Bah! That place is run by grey sheep who hoard knowledge rather than create it," Qyburn scoffed. "They fear innovation. I wished only to conduct a few experiments, and they cast me out. So, I must seek my fortune elsewhere." He picked up a scalpel, its edge gleaming in the lamplight, and pointed it toward the skeletal model. "Are you interested in these things? I will not teach you my… controversial experiments. But I can teach you the true art of healing."
"Why me?" Gendry asked.
"Because you are suitable," Qyburn said simply. "You are strong and vigorous. A surgeon needs the hands of a smith and the spirit of a warrior. We use scalpels and saws, not just herbs and prayers. Sadly, the young men of Westeros would rather swing swords than wield a blade such as this. But someone must have an appetite for knowledge."