The cabin still smelled faintly of smoke and blood, but the ship had calmed, rocking gently on the Narrow Sea. Gendry sat on a wooden bench, his freshly bandaged arm resting on the table, while Maester Qyburn paced with unusual energy.
"You're a celebrity now, Gendry," Qyburn announced with a theatrical flourish. "A hero. A savior. A storm made flesh."
Gendry blinked. "I don't feel like any of that."
"You should." Qyburn jabbed a finger at him. "Your warhammer won you glory. The sailors adore you. Captain Dunster might name his next ship after you."
Gendry shook his head. "The pirates said surrender. How could I dare? They would've thrown you overboard, and I… well—" he shrugged awkwardly, "—I'd have been dragged to the Perfumed Gardens. Sold like a horse."
It wasn't arrogance. It was truth.
Most pirates from the Three Daughters treated fellow Free City folk with a shred of pragmatism—they took ransoms and left them alive. But Westerosi males, especially young ones, were a rare commodity. Handsome, strong ones even more so.
Qyburn nodded gravely. "Your fear was justified. Westerosi do not fare well in the slave markets."
Then the Maester's face softened into a smile. "But your victory has brought you more than survival. Look at the gifts you've received."
Indeed, the bunk beside Gendry was piled with small treasures: coin pouches, daggers, a fine belt of dyed leather, a fur cloak, even a pair of Myrish-made gauntlets. All gifts from grateful sailors and passengers.
"I didn't fight for gifts," Gendry muttered.
"Yes," Qyburn said proudly. "That's precisely why they gave them."
Gendry leaned back against the cabin wall. "Still… if the Gold-Tooth Captain hadn't spread his men out, if they'd charged all at once… I wouldn't have lasted long. Without armor, I should've been dead. If they all had proper armor, like knights…"
He shook his head. "I survived because they were careless. And stupid."
"Luck is part of strength," Qyburn replied calmly. "War is never a clean Tourney surrounded by flowers. A single puddle of mud can break a horse's stride. A bad meal can sour a man's stomach. A foul mood can cloud a commander's judgment. In war, you exploit those cracks."
He leaned forward, studying Gendry's masked face with burning curiosity.
"In history, there were warriors who transcended humanity—Valyrian dragonlords, Rhoynar princes who wielded magic as easily as a spear. But that age has passed. Now we live in the age of mortal wars."
Gendry smiled faintly. "I'm no god-warrior."
"You are something rare," Qyburn insisted. "A raw talent of immense potential."
Gendry didn't know what to say, so he said the truth.
"I want to live a long life. Learning medicine… that seems useful."
Qyburn's eyes lit up. "Ah! That is the joy of teaching a bright student. I can instruct you not only in medicine, but also herbcraft, poisons, ethics, law, the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, and even High Valyrian."
Gendry chuckled. "That sounds more complicated than smithing."
"And far more entertaining," Qyburn replied. "Imagine it, my boy: a warrior who knows anatomy, medicine, the histories of empires, and the languages of dead kings. A warrior-scholar!"
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I'm scholar material."
"You are more than that. And you will see—once we reach Myr, you will need a weapons master as well. True knightly training requires structure and discipline."
Gendry rubbed his chin. "I guess that makes sense."
Qyburn nodded with almost paternal pride. "Many assume fighting is simply brute force. But the greatest warriors are versatile. Look at Prince Rhaegar."
At the name, Gendry straightened. "Rhaegar? I've heard of him. Everyone in Westeros has. He died at the Trident."
"Yes," Qyburn said, his eyes turning distant, "but before that, he was everything a prince could aspire to be."
The Maester sat beside Gendry and began recounting the past as if telling a tale of myth.
"In their youth, Prince Rhaegar and our King Robert were the brightest stars of Westeros. And not just them—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; Brandon Stark, the fiery wolf; Jon Arryn, the stalwart falcon; Ser Barristan the Bold… it was a generation of legends."
He sighed.
"But Rhaegar and Robert were opposites. Rhaegar was a melancholic prince—bookish, gentle, prone to solitude. He adored music more than tournaments. His harp could make women weep. Meanwhile, Robert Baratheon… he was a storm given flesh. Tall, loud, generous, full of life. He could drink a cellar dry, then fight a melee the next day without rest."
Gendry frowned. He had never imagined his father as a young man. He had heard stories—boasts usually—but hearing it from Qyburn made it sound like history, not rumor.
"What happened to them?" he asked quietly.
"What happened," Qyburn answered, "was love. Or lust. Or some mixture of both. A direwolf maiden—Lyanna Stark. And two proud men whose fates collided over her. Their choices shattered kingdoms."
He exhaled a long breath.
"The Seven Kingdoms bled because of a song and a girl."
"And the Mad King," Gendry added.
"Yes. Aerys and his son lost the throne by their own madness, but also because Rhaegar forgot the most important law of war: you must win." Qyburn's voice lowered. "Prince Rhaegar was a romantic. But war is not for romantics."
Gendry nodded. "He lost to Robert."
"At the Trident," Qyburn said softly. "Robert's hammer smashed Rhaegar down. A single blow that decided the fate of kingdoms."
Gendry's fingers tightened unconsciously around his own warhammer.
Qyburn chuckled. "Do not look so grim. That war ended long before you were born."
"Maybe," Gendry replied, "but the shadows of that war still hang over everything."
A silence settled between them.
At last, Qyburn cleared his throat. "Now… an impertinent request."
Gendry looked up.
"Would you take off your mask?" the Maester asked gently. "Only if you wish."
For a long moment, Gendry hesitated. He had worn the iron mask for many reasons—safety, anonymity, habit. But if there was one man he could trust now, it was this outcast Maester.
Slowly, he unfastened it.
Qyburn's eyes widened.
"By the gods…" He stepped back, stunned. "I should have known."
Gendry raised a brow. "What?"
Qyburn pointed. "You look like a young Renly. The eyes, the chin, the cheekbones—Seven hells, child, you are the King's blood made flesh."
Gendry's expression didn't change. "Perhaps it's obvious. But I can't help that."
"My apologies if I spoke ill of the King earlier," Qyburn said quickly. "Your temperament is nothing like his. Robert was proud, hot-blooded, and impulsive. You—" he gestured at Gendry, "—you are calm. Focused. Thoughtful."
"It doesn't matter. The King has forgotten me."
Qyburn shook his head. "Then good. You are better off unclaimed. Here we are—two exiles, a bastard and a disgraced Maester. In foreign lands. And yet… I believe we may carve something new into the world."
Gendry raised an eyebrow. "A bastard and a Maester against the world?"
"Yes," Qyburn said with surprising conviction. "And against the Lannisters too."
"You've had dealings with them?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn grimaced. "I once sought refuge with Lord Tywin. A fool's hope. I thought his wealth and ruthlessness might fund my research. But he despises disgraced men. I was turned away at the gates like a beggar."
Gendry nodded slowly. "Then he and I have something in common."
Qyburn laughed softly. "Indeed."
Then his voice grew serious once more.
"You have the blood of the stag, the dragon, the First Men, and the riverlands. Power flows through you."
Gendry frowned. "Then why… are the King's children—"
He stopped.
Qyburn didn't press. He only smiled sadly.
"Some questions answer themselves," he said quietly.
Gendry let out a long breath. "I haven't seen them. I don't know. And I don't want to."
Qyburn bowed his head slightly. "As you wish."
Then he knelt.
"To serve you, Your Highness," Qyburn said solemnly. "As counselor, healer, and guide."
Gendry blinked. "What are you doing?"
"Bending the knee," Qyburn said matter-of-factly. "You may not wear a crown, but you carry a kingdom's shadow in your blood. Allow me to help you rise."
"Stand up," Gendry said quickly. "Please. We're allies. Partners. That's all."
Qyburn smiled knowingly. "For now, perhaps."
Gendry didn't argue.
In truth, he didn't entirely know who—or what—he was meant to become.
A blacksmith?
A warrior?
A leader?
A prince?
But somewhere out there, two Targaryens plotted their return. Somewhere, another hidden prince lived in secret. And Gendry… Gendry had just forged his own third path on the other side of the world.
For the first time in his life, he felt something stir—something dangerous, something powerful.
Possibility.