Because the wind and waves were gentle, the ship Far-Seer moved swiftly without much rocking. It would follow the Stormlands coastline, pass the front edge of the Stepstones, and then sail on toward Myr.
An old man and a young one sat facing each other: a mad, aging maester and a sturdy young smith.
"Forgive my bluntness, lad," Qyburn said as he poured Gendry a cup of hot fruit juice. "But I suspect you may be the product of something… wild and romantic."
"You don't need to worry about offending me, and there's no need to be so roundabout," Gendry replied calmly. "Master Qyburn, I am indeed a bastard. The truth is like a sharp blade. Sooner or later, we all have to feel its edge."
He spoke without much concern. A man of Qyburn's learning and experience was rare even in the Known World.
"It seems my guess was right. There's no need to doubt it, child," Qyburn said. "I don't study the histories of noble houses, but I do study the human body, bloodlines, and heredity. Noble lords usually enjoy good food and living conditions, and with inherited bloodlines, most of them are known for being tall and strong. Lions, stags, even direwolves."
As he spoke, Qyburn toyed with the crude human model in his hands, turning it so Gendry could see.
"By looking at a person's teeth, their alignment and wear, their height, the firmness of their muscles, their clothing and appearance, you can often tell whether they are noble or common. Even a bastard. You're tall and well built, but you travel alone. Your clothes and shoes are cheap, with no jewels. A noble would never allow a legitimate son to become a smith, let alone wander on his own. The answer is obvious."
"You're not just skilled in medicine," Gendry said with a grin. "You're a sharp observer as well."
Qyburn chuckled. He really was a perceptive man.
"I find myself liking you more and more, Gendry. You're frank and fearless. That's the mark of a strong man. In truth, we're much alike. I'm a bastard too. When I was your age, if someone called me that, I took it as an insult. I'd feel angry, humiliated, even cry. In that respect, I can't compare to you."
He laughed softly and began telling his story.
"I was born into a minor noble family not far from Oldtown. You know the Reach. It's the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms. Most populous, and filled with all kinds of proud nobles. My mother was a washerwoman by the river. Somehow, she ended up carrying my lord father's child. By the time I was a teenager, my father had been dead for years."
"My brothers gave me three choices. They would never allow a washerwoman's son to become a knight. They gave me some money and told me to choose: the Wall, the Citadel, or the Faith. The Wall was too cold. The Faith was too dull. In the end, I chose to become a maester. Of course, I didn't have your physique. Otherwise, perhaps I might have become a smith as well."
He laughed again, half in jest.
"That's quite a life, Master Qyburn," Gendry said sincerely.
"I forged chains, necklaces, rings. I thought I'd spend the rest of my life at the Citadel," Qyburn said with a sigh. "I never imagined I'd be cast out in the end. I admit my experiments were… ethically questionable. But they touched on the very essence of the world."
"The essence of the world?" Gendry repeated, puzzled.
"That's right, lad. The essence of the world is magic and multiplicity, not science and truth as the Citadel preaches. Magic stirs the world. That's why the climate shifts, why dragons fly, why there are wondrous bloodlines, and why the North speaks of the Others."
His eyes burned with feverish light.
"But power also comes from humanity itself. The human body is a treasure vault. When medicine and magic are combined, they can do more than heal. They can create warriors who cannot be defeated."
"That sounds dangerous, Master Qyburn," Gendry said. "You should be careful."
Qyburn gave a self-mocking smile.
"Talking about such things now feels almost ridiculous. Once you leave the Citadel, the first problem is survival. There won't be such fine conditions for experiments anymore. Perhaps I'll attach myself to some obscure sellsword company. No one needs a mage, but healers are always welcome."
He paused, then looked at Gendry.
"You mentioned those 'wondrous bloodlines' earlier," Gendry said. "What exactly are they?"
He was genuinely curious. After all, he himself carried more than one bloodline.
"Most noble houses claim descent from gods or heroes. The Greenhand, the Storm God, and the like. But only a few bloodlines have ever truly shown power," Qyburn said. "The blood of House Targaryen, House Baratheon, House Stark, and House Martell all seems to carry some trace of magic. The Targaryens rode dragons. The Martells inherited Rhoynar blood that once summoned great rivers. And the warriors of House Baratheon are said to strike like storms."
"If a bloodline could be awakened, perhaps it would be possible to recreate the divine feats of one's ancestors. Unfortunately, those people are far beyond anything I could afford to provoke. Exceptionally gifted commoners would do just as well. I've heard that Lord Tywin has a seven-foot giant in his service."
That giant, of course, was the Mountain, the most dangerous knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
"These nobles aren't people we can afford to provoke," Gendry said. He was starting to think Qyburn might be half-mad, too deeply immersed in necromancy and morally questionable experiments.
"You're right, lad. But I think there may still be a chance to return to Westeros. And when that day comes, Westeros will likely be ablaze with war," Qyburn said cryptically.
"War?" Had Qyburn foreseen it as well?
"This isn't just my own guess, Gendry. Many people probably see it the same way. The king won the war, but he failed to press his advantage. Robert gave Dragonstone to Stannis as a reward, and Storm's End to Renly out of affection."
"But the Stormlands belong to Renly, the youngest brother, below even the second son. Where is the legal justification in that? All it does is encourage arrogance in the favored younger brother. Stannis, the second brother, received Dragonstone and was left simmering with resentment. And His Grace Robert himself? He holds only the Crownlands. By the Seven, he could have merged the Stormlands with the Crownlands and made the royal house unassailable, but he didn't. He may be king in name, but in truth, he's merely the head of a great alliance."
"With so many ministers beneath the Iron Throne," Gendry asked deliberately, "surely one or two of them can see the situation clearly?"
"There are plenty of ministers in King's Landing, but I doubt a single one can persuade our proud king," Qyburn said flatly. "Wine and women are the king's true loves. As for everything else, it's left to the Seven and our old Arryn. The realm is handed to Arryn, the court to the Lannisters. We've had our mediocre kings and our merry kings. The mediocre ones rush to prove themselves. The merry ones never think about tomorrow or the future."
"But all this is still speculation. On the surface, the great alliance of the wolf, the trout, the falcon, the stag, and the lion remains the strongest. I only fear that some ambitious souls, kept awake by wildfire burning in their hearts, have begun to covet that iron chair that kills its owners."
"You mean Renly," Gendry said.
"I hope not. I'm a man of the Reach, and I know Great Lord Renly has grown far too close to it. After all, House Tyrell has also been pushed out of the inner circle."
Gendry thought it over and found it hard to disagree. Stannis, for all his resentment, remained loyal to his elder brother. But Renly was different. Ambitious by nature, and with House Tyrell openly sidelined, they would hardly be content to stay quiet.
"Lower your voice, Maester Qyburn," Gendry warned. "In King's Landing, words like these can get you beheaded."
"You're right, lad," Qyburn said with a self-mocking smile. "My old head isn't worth much, and you're still young. But neither of us truly matters. A down-and-out smith and a maester stripped of his chain. I doubt the crows or the spiders would ever bother to notice us."