Farewell, King's Landing.
As the Spyglass slipped out of the harbor, Gendry watched the armada of the capital shrink behind them. Upriver on the Blackwater Rush, the golden sails of the royal dromonds were neatly furled. Deep-water fishing boats and river skiffs wove through the traffic, making way for heavy merchant cogs from the Narrow Sea, graceful swan ships from the Summer Isles, and pleasure barges belonging to the crown.
Slowly, the Red Keep atop Aegon's High Hill came into full view. It was a brutal, imposing fortress of pale red stone, boasting seven massive drum towers, a cavernous Great Hall, covered bridges, barracks, and dungeons. The thick curtain walls bristled with iron half-moons and murder holes. High above it all, the Crowned Stag snapped proudly in the wind.
The Spyglass was a fast two-masted galley driven by sixty oars. Compared to the greedy Tyroshi or the lustful Lyseni, Myrish crews held a slightly better reputation. Her cargo hold was packed tight, leaving precious little room for passengers on deck.
Gendry kept his face turned toward the spray, letting the sea breeze wash over him, offering the old man nothing but the profile of his cold iron half-mask.
"I know some letters," Gendry replied evenly. "Not many."
Despite the man's warm, grandfatherly smile, something about him set Gendry's teeth on edge.
"How much you know matters little. It is your physical constitution that is truly enviable," the old man murmured, stepping closer. Denied a view of the boy's face, his pale blue eyes meticulously tracked the lines of Gendry's body, the width of his shoulders, the ratio of his legs to his torso, the dense muscle shifting beneath his tunic.
"How old are you?"
"Thirteen. Near fourteen," Gendry lied, adding two years.
"A magnificent frame. You will be true steel when you finish growing," the old man praised, his voice a soft, soothing hum. "I predict you will stand well over six feet and four inches."
A cold prickle crawled up the back of Gendry's neck. The man didn't sound like a mentor; he sounded like a flesh-peddler assessing prime livestock.
"Do not be alarmed, child," the old man chuckled softly. "I am a scholar. A healer. It is my nature to observe how things are built."
"May I ask your name?" Gendry's throat suddenly felt dry.
"A name is merely a placeholder. But you may call me Qyburn."
Gendry's breath hitched, though he kept his posture perfectly still. Qyburn. No wonder the man looked at him like a dissection subject. He was staring at the man who would one day engineer an invincible, undead knight. A master of the healing arts, and of necromancy.
"Gendry."
"A sturdy name. Peasant stock, though," Qyburn mused, tapping his chin. "Yet your bearing and your build suggest something more. You are a fascinating creature, Gendry."
"Thank you," Gendry said flatly. Beneath his iron mask, his mind raced. The disgraced maester was dangerous, but he was also a repository of immense knowledge. Lacking any leverage, Gendry decided to let the current take him.
"And your parents?"
"Dead."
"My condolences. The Stranger treats all men equally in the end." Qyburn turned his gaze toward the fading shoreline. "Aside from the stench, the only things of interest in King's Landing are the banners. The red dragon on black, the crowned stag, the roaring lion. Across the Narrow Sea, it is a world of cheese merchants and spicers." A wistful look crossed his lined face. "I still remember the years when the red dragon flew."
"Why did you leave the capital, then?" Gendry asked.
"To eat, child. The high lords I favored scorned and refused me. The minor lordlings who took me in lacked the strength to protect me. Between survival and my life's work, I had no choice but to try my luck in Essos." Qyburn pulled his grey cloak tighter around his stooped shoulders. "The wind grows too fierce for old bones. I am retiring to my cabin. If you ever wish to converse with an old man, my door is open."
"I would be honored." Gendry watched the ex-maester shuffle away.
The Spyglass skimmed across the water like a dragonfly, its oars rising and falling in perfect unison.
"Queer sort, that one," the Myrish captain muttered, stepping up beside Gendry. "Dry as old rotwood. Looks at a lad like you and hungers for the fire in your blood."
"Thank you for the warning, Captain," Gendry said.
The captain glanced at Gendry's iron mask, muttered something under his breath about hiding ugly scars, and walked away.
Gendry turned his attention back to the rolling sea. It was his first time on a true ship, and his first time leaving King's Landing. His stomach held steady against the rocking waves.
He thought of the Spider. Did Varys even care that one of his obscure little game pieces had vanished? Probably not. The eunuch had three or four royal bastards to keep track of. Losing the one furthest down the board hardly disrupted the grand design.
King's Landing reeks of shit, but it reeks of spiders and mockingbirds, too, Gendry thought, gripping the rail. When I return, I'll carve them both out.
He pushed off the rail and headed below deck, navigating the narrow wooden corridors until he found Qyburn's cabin. He pushed the door open.
The old man sat reading by the light of a swaying lantern, a cup of steaming liquid resting on the desk.
"Ah. I am glad you decided to visit," Qyburn said, his eyes crinkling warmly. "The vitality of youth is always a comfort to the old."
Gendry glanced around the cramped quarters. There were few books. Instead, the desk was cluttered with polished steel tools: scalpels, bone chisels, spools of gut-thread, and a stoppered vial of thick, white milk of the poppy.
"You truly are a physician," Gendry noted. In this era, a healer needed the stomach of a butcher and hands of iron.
"What was your trade before this?"
"I was a blacksmith."
"A smith. Oh, a noble calling. But grueling," Qyburn said with a dismissive little wave. "And the Myrish artisans are peerless. You may find no hearth willing to take you. A healer's trade is bloody, yes, but it commands respect. It pays handsomely. Men will always need someone to mend their broken flesh."
Next to the surgical tools stood a meticulously constructed anatomical model of a human torso. It was rough, fashioned from wood and wax, but the ribcage, the spine, and the placement of the organs were shockingly precise. A man could only map the human body so perfectly by taking it apart.
"The human body is a vast, profound mystery. I have studied it for a lifetime and have yet to find its limits," Qyburn murmured, tracing a finger down the model's wooden spine. "But I am old. I cannot touch the future. Perhaps it is time I passed on a spark of what I know."
"Should you not be doing that at the Citadel?" Gendry asked.
"Please." Qyburn's gentle smile hardened into something brittle. "A flock of grey sheep, the lot of them. Why do the seasons shift so wildly? Why do the Others stir in the deep North? They care nothing for these questions. They exist to chain knowledge, not advance it. I merely wished to push the boundaries of understanding, and they stripped me of my collar. And so, here I am."
Qyburn picked up a scalpel, the polished steel gleaming in the lamplight, and pointed it at the bone model.
"Does this interest you, Gendry? I will not teach you my... darker experiments. But if you are willing, I can teach you the true arts of healing."
"Why me?"
"It is quite simple. You are suited for it," Qyburn said softly. "A physician must wield the saw and the splint. Surgery requires immense physical strength and inexhaustible stamina. It is a tragedy that the youth of the Seven Kingdoms would rather swing swords and break bodies than learn how to bind them. Someone must be willing to hold the scalpel."