Because the winds were gentle, the Spyglass made swift time without pitching violently over the waves. The galley would skirt the jagged coast of the Stormlands, thread the upper straits of the Stepstones, and finally cross the open water to Myr.
Below deck, the young blacksmith and the disgraced, aging maester sat facing one another across a narrow wooden table.
"Forgive my bluntness, child," Qyburn murmured, pouring a cup of hot spiced juice for Gendry. "But I deduce you are the product of some wild, romantic indiscretion."
"You don't need to dress it up, Master Qyburn. I won't be offended," Gendry replied evenly. "I'm a bastard. The truth is like a sharp blade, sooner or later, you're going to get cut by it anyway."
Gendry felt no need to feign outrage. A man of Qyburn's intellect and dark experience was a rare commodity in the known world.
"I see my assumption was correct. Do not look so puzzled, child," Qyburn smiled warmly. "I do not study the dusty lineages of noble houses. I study the architecture of the human body. Bloodlines and inheritance. High lords enjoy rich diets and pristine living conditions. Combined with their ancient blood, their lines are famed for producing towering, powerful men. The Lions, the Stags, the Direwolves of the North."
Qyburn picked up his wooden anatomical model, tracing a finger along its spine.
"Look at a man's dentition, is it straight or worn? Observe his frame, whether the muscle is dense or slack. Look at his clothing and his face. These things easily distinguish a noble from a peasant, even if the child is born on the wrong side of the blanket. You are tall, perfectly formed, yet you travel alone. Your clothes are cheap, devoid of any lordly ornament. No noble house would permit a trueborn son to toil as a smith and travel unaccompanied. The answer, therefore, is obvious."
"You're not just a healer," Gendry noted, genuinely impressed. "You have a sharp eye."
"And I grow fonder of you by the minute, Gendry. Frank and fearless. It is the demeanor of the strong," Qyburn chuckled softly. "In truth, we share a similar affliction. I, too, am a bastard."
Qyburn leaned back, his pale blue eyes distant. "When I was your age, and men hurled that word at me, I took it as a venomous insult. I felt anger, agony. I even wept. You possess a far stronger constitution than I did."
He took a slow sip of his drink before continuing. "I was born to a minor noble house not far from Oldtown. The Reach is the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms, as you know. It boasts the largest population, and consequently, the highest number of proud, superfluous lords. My mother was a washerwoman by the river who somehow caught the lord's seed. By the time I was a boy, my father was already rotting in the earth. My trueborn brothers gave me three choices, for they would never allow a washerwoman's brat to win his spurs as a knight. They offered me a pouch of coin and told me to choose: the Wall, the Citadel, or the Faith."
Qyburn smiled, a thin, papery expression. "The Wall was too cold. The Faith was too dull. So, I chose the chain of a maester. I lacked your magnificent physique, you see. Had I been blessed with it, perhaps I would have taken up the hammer myself."
"A fascinating life, Master Qyburn," Gendry said.
"I forged my links. I believed I would spend my dying days in the Citadel. I never expected to be cast out," Qyburn sighed. "I concede that my experiments were considered... unethical. But I was pursuing the very nature of the world!"
"The nature of the world?" Gendry asked, furrowing his brow.
"Indeed, child. The true nature of this world is rooted in magic and blood, not the sterile 'science and truth' the Citadel preaches," Qyburn said, a sudden, fervent fire lighting his eyes. "The world is plucked like a string by magic! It causes the erratic turning of the seasons. It birthed the dragons that danced in the sky. It flows through ancient bloodlines. It wakes the Others in the deep North!"
Qyburn leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "But true power also resides within man himself. The human body is a vault of wonders. If one weds medicine to magic, one can do more than merely heal. One can forge an invincible warrior."
"That sounds like madness, Master Qyburn," Gendry said coldly. "You should watch your step."
"It is entirely theoretical now, of course," Qyburn said, the fire vanishing as quickly as it had come. He offered a self-deprecating laugh. "Exiled from the Citadel, a man must first secure his next meal. I no longer have access to the pristine laboratories I require. I suppose I must pledge myself to some obscure mercenary company in Essos. No one wants a sorcerer, but soldiers always need a healer."
"You mentioned ancient bloodlines," Gendry prompted, steering the conversation. The topic struck dangerously close to home; he knew exactly what dormant magic lingered in his own veins.
"Most high lords boast of descending from gods or heroes," Qyburn replied smoothly. "Garth Greenhand, the Storm God, and the like. But only a handful ever truly manifest that power. The blood of House Targaryen, House Baratheon, House Stark, House Martell... they all carry an undeniable resonance. The Targaryens commanded dragons. The Martells inherited the blood of the Rhoyne, whose water-witches could summon the river to swallow armies. And the Baratheons... their warriors strike with the fury of a storm."
Qyburn stared at his wooden model. "If one could awaken that blood, perhaps the miracles of their ancestors could be recreated in flesh. Alas, those great houses are far beyond my reach. But a mortal born with freakish, innate gifts would serve just as well. I hear Lord Tywin Lannister commands a knight who stands nearly eight feet tall."
Gendry recognized the reference instantly. The Mountain. The most dangerous, brutal dog in the Seven Kingdoms.
"The great lords are beyond our reach," Gendry agreed flatly, realizing just how deeply Qyburn had sunk into his obsession with necromancy and vivisection.
"You are right, child. But I suspect there will be an opportunity to return to Westeros soon enough," Qyburn said, his smile returning. "When the realm goes up in flames."
"Flames?" Gendry asked. Did Qyburn see the war coming, too?
"It requires no great prophecy, Gendry. Anyone with eyes can see it. King Robert won his rebellion, yet failed to consolidate his victory. He gave Dragonstone to Stannis as a reward for duty, and Storm's End to Renly out of love."
Qyburn shook his head mockingly. "But Storm's End is the ancestral seat. What legal precedent dictates passing over the elder brother for the youngest? It only bred arrogance in Renly. And Stannis, granted the dreary rock of Dragonstone, simmers with endless resentment. And the king himself? He holds the Crownlands. By the Seven, if Robert had bound the Stormlands and the Crownlands into a single, unified power, the Iron Throne would be unassailable. Instead, he fractured his own strength. He rules as a king, but acts merely as the figurehead of a grand alliance."
"There are hundreds of lords and ministers beneath the Iron Throne," Gendry countered deliberately. "Surely one or two can see the danger?"
"King's Landing is teeming with ministers, yes. But I wager not a single one can leash our proud, oblivious king," Qyburn concluded. "Wine and women are his true councilors. He leaves the realm to old Jon Arryn, and the court to the Lannisters. We have traded a Mad King for a Merry King. The madman burned the realm to prove his power, while the merry man drinks so he need not think of tomorrow."
Qyburn steepled his fingers. "It is merely a deduction, of course. For now, the grand alliance of the Wolf, the Fish, the Falcon, the Stag, and the Lion remains overwhelmingly powerful. But I fear the ambition of certain men will keep them awake at night. Men who look at that deadly iron chair and covet it."
"You mean Renly," Gendry said.
"Let us hope I am wrong. But I am a Reachman, and I see Lord Renly growing exceedingly intimate with the lords of the Reach. And House Tyrell, you will note, was entirely excluded from the king's inner circle."
Gendry remained silent. Qyburn's assessment was flawless. Stannis was bitter, but his rigid honor bound him to his brother. Renly, however, was violently ambitious, and the Tyrells were too rich and too proud to sit on the sidelines forever.
"You should keep your voice down, Maester Qyburn," Gendry warned quietly. "In King's Landing, talk like that costs a man his head."
"Very true, child," Qyburn chuckled. "Though my grey head is worth precious little, and you are young. But we are of no consequence. A disgraced maester and a runaway smith. I imagine the crows and the spiders have entirely forgotten we exist."