"Farewell, King's Landing."
As the two-masted Myrish schooner pulled away from the docks, Gendry whispered the words into the wind and watched the sprawling capital shrink behind him. Ships of every shape and size drifted across the Blackwater Rush—swift river barges, deep-sea fishing boats, fat merchant cogs, elegant swan ships from the Summer Isles, and the sleek yachts of the nobility.
Upstream, the golden royal warships gleamed in the sunlight, their sails furled, their hulls imposing even at rest. It was a beautiful sight, but one Gendry doubted he would ever miss.
Slowly, The Red Keep emerged fully into view on Aegon's Hill—a fortress of seven vast drum towers, thick stone curtain walls pierced with arrow slits, domed halls, enclosed bridges, and sprawling barracks. The crowned stag of Baratheon snapped proudly above the battlements where the dragons of Targaryen had once flown.
A symbol of power.
And a reminder of how fragile power truly was.
The Myrish schooner—aptly named the Telescope—was light and swift, built for speed. Sixty long oars dipped rhythmically into the water as the sails caught the wind. Compared to the flamboyant Tyroshi or the indulgent Lyseni, the Myrish sailors had better reputations and steadier hands. Perhaps that was why so many traders chose their ships.
With most of the vessel's space taken up by cargo, there were only a handful of passengers aboard.
Gendry kept his hood low and his iron mask on, giving the old man beside him only a partial view of his face. He tilted his head toward the sea breeze, letting the salt wind cool his thoughts.
Perhaps the sea could blow away the weight of the past.
"I can read a little… but not much," he answered the old man.
The old man nodded, leaning closer to inspect him. There was something unsettling in the way he studied Gendry's proportions—his long legs, broad shoulders, and the stark blue eyes visible through the mask.
"You have an enviable physique," the old man said, stroking his chin. "How old are you?"
"Thirteen. Maybe fourteen."
Gendry intentionally added two years. With his size, people rarely questioned it.
"A strong lad," the old man murmured. "A boy like you will be true steel one day. Mark my words—you'll grow taller than six foot four."
Gendry stiffened.
The tone was too… analytical.
Almost like a butcher examining livestock.
A slaver?
A trafficker?
Or something worse?
The old man chuckled softly.
"Relax, child. I am no slaver. I'm a scholar. And a healer. My curiosity is professional."
"What's your name?" Gendry asked cautiously.
"Names are but labels," the man said casually. "But if you insist—Qyburn."
Gendry's blood chilled.
Of course.
It all made sense now.
Maester Qyburn—expelled from the Citadel for "forbidden experiments," fascinated with the human body in ways few dared to explore. A man of remarkable genius and equally remarkable lack of restraint. A man who patched up kings and monsters alike… and later created horrors that defied nature.
No wonder he stared at Gendry like a rare specimen.
Gendry kept his voice steady.
"Gendry."
"A strong name. Though not a noble one." Qyburn tilted his head. "Yet you don't move or carry yourself like a common-born child. You're… interesting."
"Thank you," Gendry replied calmly, though every instinct warned him to stay alert.
Qyburn's eyes flicked toward the shrinking Red Keep.
"The banners there were far more glorious in the past," he murmured. "Black dragons on red fields. Symbols of fire, blood, and destiny."
"Then why did you leave King's Landing?" Gendry asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to steer the conversation away from himself.
"For sustenance," Qyburn said bitterly. "The lord I served cast me out. Another lesser lord took me in, but he was too weak to support my work. Between survival and ambition, I chose the path Across the Narrow Sea."
He patted Gendry's shoulder lightly.
"If you ever wish to talk to an old man, my door is open."
He shuffled away, returning to the cabins below deck.
Gendry watched him go.
"So that's the infamous Qyburn," he whispered. "A desperate man… but a dangerous one."
---
Strangeness at Sea
The schooner glided across the waves like a dragonfly skimming a pond, oars slicing in unison.
The Myrish captain approached Gendry, speaking in a hushed voice.
"That old fellow is… odd," the captain muttered. "Like a carved piece of driftwood someone forgot to finish. I think he envies your youth."
"Thank you for the warning," Gendry replied.
The captain nodded and returned to the deck hands, leaving Gendry with his thoughts.
He leaned on the railing and watched the rolling waves. This was his first journey by sea—the first time he had ever left King's Landing. The ship rocked gently underfoot, and to his relief, he felt no seasickness. Only a strange, liberating exhilaration.
"The Spider," he muttered quietly.
No doubt Varys would discover his disappearance soon enough, but the eunuch would merely sigh and adjust his plans. Gendry was only one of many pawns in the Spider's web.
Littlefinger was worse.
Ambitious. Hungry.
A man who twisted numbers and men with equal ease.
"King's Landing stinks," Gendry growled under his breath. "It reeks of the Spider and Littlefinger. One day… I'll deal with them both."
He made his way to the lower deck and stopped at Qyburn's door. Curiosity—and caution—guided him.
He knocked once, then entered.
---
Qyburn's Cabin
Qyburn looked up from a worn book, smiling pleasantly.
"Ah, youth is so delightful," he said. "To care enough to visit an old man."
Gendry scanned the cabin.
A simple bed.
A stack of books.
A lantern swinging overhead.
And on the table—
Surgical knives.
Chisels.
Thread.
Milk of the poppy.
And an anatomical model—hand-carved, showing bones, joints, and organs in surprising detail.
"You're clearly a trained healer," Gendry observed.
"Oh, yes. Healing, cutting, stitching—medicine is a bloody art." Qyburn chuckled. "Most healers faint at the sight of blood. Ridiculous, isn't it?"
Gendry wasn't sure how to answer that.
"What did you do before boarding this ship, Gendry?"
"A blacksmith."
"Ah! A respectable trade. But blacksmithing is laborious. And in Myr, their smiths are… well, annoyingly skilled. You might struggle to find work there." Qyburn sniffed. "Medicine, however—messy, yes. But profitable. Even revered."
He picked up his scalpel, twirling it between his fingers.
"The human body is a vast mystery. I've studied it for decades, and still I know so little. But my age limits me now. I can only go so far."
He looked at Gendry meaningfully.
"Perhaps it's time to plant new seeds."
Gendry met his gaze steadily.
"Maybe the Citadel was the right place for you."
Qyburn let out a sharp laugh.
"The Citadel? A nest of grey sheep! They hoard knowledge like dragons hoard gold. They despise innovation. At my smallest experiment, they recoiled. They drove me out."
His tone softened.
"I do not blame them. Visionaries rarely belong in cages."
He tapped the skeletal model.
"Tell me, Gendry—are you interested in learning the healing arts? Not… forbidden things. Proper medical skills."
"Why me?"
"Because you have what young men rarely do," Qyburn answered.
"Strength. Discipline. Curiosity. Endurance. And spirit."
He leaned closer.
"To wield a scalpel, one needs steadiness. To set bones, one needs strength. To survive medicine, one needs courage."
He paused.
"Most boys in the Seven Kingdoms would rather swing swords than scalpels."
Gendry remained silent.
But a spark of intrigue lit inside him.
A blacksmith's hands… could also save lives.
But the question was—
What did Qyburn really want?
And what path would Gendry choose?