"You are quite the hero now, Gendry," Qyburn remarked lightly, seated across from the boy in their cramped cabin.
The Spyglass was still buzzing with adrenaline. The sight of the masked boy with the spiked warhammer wading into the melee had left a deep impression on the crew. His wild, explosive violence had saved the ship from capture.
"The corsairs told us to surrender. I knew better," Gendry said, offering a helpless shrug. A fresh linen bandage was wrapped tightly around his left forearm, but given his constitution, the shallow cut was already beginning to knit. "They would have fed you to the crabs and sold me to the perfumed pillow houses of Lys."
Pirates from the Three Daughters, Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys, routinely ransomed Free City merchants for a hefty profit, rarely shedding blood if they could avoid it. But they harbored no such mercies for Westerosi. To them, Westerosi were nothing but prime chattel for the slave markets.
"True enough, child. But your victory has earned you no small amount of goodwill," Qyburn smiled.
It was no secret that Captain Dunstan, the Myrish crew, and the grateful Westerosi merchants had pressed a small fortune of coins and gifts upon Gendry. The boy's ferocity had saved them from the lash, the slave pens, and total financial ruin.
"A real battle is not what I imagined," Gendry mused, ignoring the mention of his reward. "If the gold-toothed captain hadn't been so arrogant and split his forces, I wouldn't have found an opening. If twenty men had boarded at once, we would have been butchered."
Gendry replayed the fight in his mind. It had been incredibly dangerous. He had been forced to fight unarmored and without a helm. "If those corsairs had been wearing plate, we would be dead."
"Indeed, Gendry. War is a perilous game, and luck is merely another facet of strength," Qyburn nodded. "Real battle is not a flower-strewn tourney. A puddle of water, a patch of mud, a bout of bad digestion from last night's supper, any trivial thing can tip the scales between life and death. Mortal men have limits."
Qyburn leaned forward, his pale eyes searching the crude iron mask Gendry had strapped back on.
"The histories speak of god-like warriors whose strength defied human limits, but those tales are centuries old," the ex-maester continued. "The Dragonlords of Valyria, the Princes and Princesses of the Rhoyne... they mastered both steel and sorcery. Today, we are left only with the wars of mortal men."
Qyburn fell silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the table.
"I had originally intended to take you on as a medical apprentice. The healing arts lack the glory of knighthood, but they offer a safe and prosperous living. But having seen you on that deck... child, you were born for the battlefield. That kind of innate, explosive talent is exceedingly rare."
"A warrior's life is fine, but I prefer to live a long one," Gendry replied. "Learning medicine still sounds appealing."
"And I would be delighted to teach you," Qyburn said, his eyes gleaming. "But I can offer you far more than medicine and poisons. I can teach you history, law, poetry, theology, and High Valyrian."
That sounds far more complex than hammering iron, Gendry thought, though he felt a surge of genuine interest. A polymath as brilliant as Qyburn was a rare treasure. If the Citadel hadn't cast him out, Gendry would never have had the chance to speak with him, let alone learn from him. Moreover, Qyburn was entirely isolated. He had no house, no lord, no allegiances. He could only attach himself to raw power. He could only attach himself to Gendry.
"That sounds much more interesting than the forge. I am quite eager to mold myself into a better fighter," Gendry said. "Though when we reach Myr, I suppose I will need a proper master-at-arms. Knightly combat requires formal training."
"Many fools believe battle is merely the domain of brutes. They are wrong," Qyburn said smoothly. "A warrior can be a man of profound culture. Consider Prince Rhaegar."
"Rhaegar." Gendry leaned forward. "The prince who died on the Trident."
Even though Rhaegar Targaryen had been dead for over a decade, his ghost still seemed to haunt the skies of Westeros, the memory of his life and death a deep scar across the realm.
"I have always found that chapter of history fascinating. Sadly, I am but a frail scholar. I could only read the ravens' reports and imagine the heroes of that age," Qyburn sighed. "Our fat, drunken king was once an unstoppable force of nature."
Qyburn steepled his fingers. "In those days, Prince Rhaegar and Lord Robert Baratheon were the brightest stars in the firmament, alongside the Sword of the Morning, the Wild Wolf, the Falcon's wards, and Ser Barristan. But Rhaegar and Robert were entirely different creatures. The prince was melancholic. He preferred scrolls to swords and the silver harp to the lance. Highborn maidens wept at his beauty and his sorrow.
"Robert was the exact opposite. He was the Laughing Storm reborn. He lived for roaring laughter, the thrill of the hunt, deep cups of wine, willing women, and the brutal crash of the melee. He was a towering giant, boisterous and unmatched in his martial fury."
"And then?" Gendry prompted.
"And then the tragedy that all of Westeros knows," Qyburn murmured. "Two incredibly proud warriors became entangled over a single woman. A girl with the wolf's blood in her veins. Their fatal romance dragged the entire continent into the fire. Though, the exact nature of Lady Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar's relationship... well, that remains a tangle of rumors."
"Right or wrong, the truth hardly matters now," Gendry said flatly. "The Mad King and his son lost the Iron Throne. That is the only truth."
"Precisely. And it all culminated at the ruby ford of the Trident, where Robert's warhammer caved in Rhaegar's chest. Once a war is lost militarily, romantic ideals mean nothing," Qyburn said. "Still, it is remarkable that Prince Rhaegar managed to wound Robert so grievously before he fell. The prince was burdened by his high station and his myriad artistic pursuits. He was never a warrior at heart."
Gendry considered this. It was true enough. Riding with a blunted lance in a tourney was vastly different from a chaotic, muddy battlefield. And Rhaegar had never dedicated his entire soul to the art of killing.
"Whether it is Robert or Rhaegar, the lesson remains the same," Qyburn said, a dark fire dancing in his pale eyes. "Aesthetics, music, poetry, even medicine... these are merely ornaments for a knight. The only thing that truly matters is winning the war. Taking everything. You must be stronger, more fearless, and far more cunning than your enemy. Prince Rhaegar forgot that ultimate truth, and so he died at Robert's feet."
"I understand."
"Which brings me to an impertinent request from an old man," Qyburn said softly. "Would you take off your mask, child? If you are unwilling, I will not press the matter."
Gendry reached up and unbuckled the leather straps. He pulled the cold iron away, revealing his face to the lamplight.
Coal-black hair. Deep, piercing blue eyes. A strong, square jaw and sharp cheekbones.
"By the Gods," Qyburn breathed, his jaw dropping slightly as he pointed a trembling finger at Gendry's face. "I should have known. I should have seen it."
Qyburn had seen King Robert. He had seen Lord Renly. The boy sitting before him looked like a slightly younger replica of Renly Baratheon, though the dense muscle already packing the boy's frame promised he would eventually outgrow the Lord of Storm's End.
"It is a bit conspicuous, I admit. But I have no way to change my face," Gendry said politely.
"Forgive my earlier disparagement of His Grace," Qyburn stammered, recovering his wits. "Your temperament is so entirely unlike the king's... Robert is proud, boisterous, and rash. Had you shared his temper, I might have guessed it sooner. The seed is strong indeed."
"It doesn't matter. The king doesn't even know I exist," Gendry said, waving a hand dismissively. He had zero interest in returning to Westeros to play the game of thrones right now. His claim was virtually non-existent. It was far better to stay in the shadows and forge his own strength.
"Then that is for the best," Qyburn said, a sudden, sharp excitement bleeding into his voice. "In this forgotten corner of the world, a royal bastard and an exiled maester. I believe we shall bring a great deal of excitement to this world. And to those damned Lannisters!"
In an age without dragons, martial prowess and sheer charisma were the ultimate currencies. Robert Baratheon had won the Iron Throne not merely through his Targaryen grandmother, but through his crushing hammer and his magnetic charm.
"The Lannisters?" Gendry asked, tilting his head. "Did you have a falling out with them as well?"
"I did, actually," Qyburn admitted, looking briefly uncomfortable. "After the Citadel stripped me of my chain, I traveled to Casterly Rock to offer my services to Lord Tywin. I was... aggressively refused. Tywin Lannister is immensely powerful and obscenely wealthy. He is a cold, brutal pragmatist who ordered the slaughter of children and the sack of King's Landing. I thought a man so ruthlessly practical might fund my research. But he is also fiercely arrogant. He detests ragged, disgraced scholars like me."
Qyburn's uncomfortable grimace melted back into a smile. "But none of that matters now. Compared to my lonely research, the prospect of helping to forge an invincible king is far more intoxicating."
He looked at Gendry. The boy possessed no gold and no armies, but his potential was staggering. "You carry the blood of the Dragon, the Stag, the First Men, and the Rhoyne."
"But what of the king's trueborn children?" Qyburn mused, his brow furrowing in thought. He spoke carefully. "I saw the Crown Prince once. Joffrey. Golden-haired, green-eyed, fair-skinned, and exceedingly arrogant. He possessed absolutely none of the Baratheon traits. And yet the king has a bastard at Storm's End who looks exactly like you."
It was not unheard of for a queen to cuckold a king. Aegon the Unworthy had famously spread rumors that his own queen had slept with his brother, Aemon the Dragonknight.
"I have never met the royal children. I know nothing about them," Gendry said, his voice dropping to a freezing chill. If the secret of Cersei's incest was ever exposed, Gendry wanted to be as far away from the blast radius as possible.
Hearing the absolute ice in the boy's tone, Qyburn understood immediately. The maester's eyes widened slightly, and then he bowed his head.
"It will be my profound honor to serve as your physician, your tutor, and your sworn man," Qyburn said, his voice dropping to a tone of absolute reverence. In that moment, he permanently severed whatever lingering hopes he had of serving House Lannister. "Let us build your kingdom... Your Grace."
"The honor is mine, Master Qyburn."
As Gendry looked at the bowing old man, a realization struck him. He had just formed the third major Essosi faction. It was small, only two men, but it was a start. The other two were the Targaryen siblings wandering the Free Cities, and the hidden dragon, "Aegon," waiting in the wings with the Golden Company.