"That Ramsay is a menace, Prince," Jorah said firmly. He wore fine leather armor, over which hung a green brocade cloak embroidered with a black bear standing upright.
"And what would you suggest, Jorah? That the Prince openly offend Roose? Bear Island still lies in the North," Qyburn said with a faint frown. He was dressed in gray, a Wolf Pack badge pinned to his chest. "Roose is not ignorant of that fool's crimes. But Ramsay is his last son."
"Though Ramsay is indeed foolish and vicious," Qyburn added calmly. Slaughter was a kind of madness, and the North could ill afford to waste its sparse population. A wretch like Ramsay would drag House Bolton down sooner or later.
Jorah fell silent. Ramsay's arrogance was, in truth, born of Roose's indulgence and neglect.
"Enough. Ramsay is a menace, but now is not the time to execute him," Gendry said. "There will be a better moment. When that time comes, I will offer Roose terms he cannot refuse."
Reek had already been put to death, and Ramsay's spirit had been broken. He was a pervert and a killer, but his end would not come yet. Gendry wanted a Ramsay who feared him utterly, one who would bark in the North on his behalf before meeting a clean death.
"Roose will be undone by that son, sooner or later," Jorah said. "The Roose I knew was a quiet man. Domeric was his true son. Roose always appeared mild and courteous. He spoke softly, never raising his voice, forcing others to lean in and listen. He was cold and calculating, ruthless even, but he had sense and knew how to cloak himself in manners."
"The Starks pride themselves on justice, yet they cannot fully control their own bannermen," Gendry said with a snort.
"It is not only Lord Stark. Most lords across the Seven Kingdoms act as tyrants within their own lands," Jorah said after a pause. "The North is simply remote and harsh. Many lords still cling to the old traditions of their forefathers."
"Sooner or later, they will have to accept one king, one covenant, one law," Gendry said thoughtfully.
Provided he could one day claim that cold iron throne.
He would wait patiently, like a hunting cat choosing the right moment to strike.
"Prince, there is one more matter. The tournament we are preparing. I should personally see to the security," Jorah said, bowing slightly. Wolf's Den would soon host a grand spectacle.
"You have my thanks, Jorah."
"It is my honor, Prince." Ser Jorah felt renewed, as though power had restored the vigor of his youth, like storming ramparts beneath a banner.
After Jorah left, Gendry turned to Qyburn.
"Master Qyburn, how fares your research of late?"
"I am ashamed to say, Prince, there has been little progress," Qyburn replied. "Without proper materials, I cannot proceed. The horselord who died by your hand has rotted beyond use. He no longer suits my requirements."
"Then we wait. I believe the Mountain would make a fine subject," Gendry said evenly.
Necromancy demanded strong bodies. The Mountain, the gladiators of Meereen, the Dothraki horselords, such men were ideal vessels.
But it was not only a matter of material. The tide of magic itself had to rise further. Unless the Red Comet returned, Qyburn's experiments would remain difficult to advance.
"Then I wish you swift success in claiming that throne," Qyburn said with a faint smile. "If Tywin falls, few will mourn the hounds he kept."
"It is too early to speak of that," Gendry replied. "That iron throne represents not only power, but the burden of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Even so, though my experiments have not yet borne fruit, I have found other insights in ancient texts. Concerning bloodlines. Concerning power."
Unlike other maesters, Qyburn had delved deeply into mysticism and sorcery, to the brink of obsession.
"That is an interesting subject. Go on," Gendry said.
"First, the Baratheon bloodline. Its strength originates with Durrandon. Whether it is their resilience or their physical might, that power is carried in the blood. Passed down generation after generation."
This was Westeros, after all. A land of ancient houses that had endured for a thousand years or more. Hightower. Stark. The Baratheons who inherited the legacy of Durrandon. Lannister.
In such a place, the idea that certain miracles and strengths lingered within bloodlines did not seem so strange.
"I can feel it," Gendry said.
Of all the blood within him, only the blood of the storm ran thick and alive. The others showed no sign of awakening, no miracles, no blessing.
"The Baratheon bloodline shows itself in fury and strength, like a storm at sea," Qyburn said. "The Laughing Storm. King Robert. And even that ridiculous Great Lord Borros. He wavered during the Dance of the Dragons, yet on the battlefield he was a fierce warrior. Though grievously wounded, Borros slew twelve knights before facing Lord Kermit, along with Lord Roland Darry and Lord Jorah Mallister, before finally falling beneath Lord Tully's morningstar."
"But that seems only a matter of physical strength," Gendry said quietly. He could feel himself approaching a threshold. Perhaps fiercer battles could further temper the blood of the storm, but it would not turn him into something beyond human.
"Raw strength alone is not enough," Qyburn replied. "When this long summer ends, you may touch something deeper."
Those who paid attention had already begun to sense that this prolonged summer was unnatural. Some believed the shifting climate heralded the return of magic. And when such a long summer gave way to an equally long and bitter winter, famine and plague could follow.
"What do you mean by deeper?" Gendry asked.
"The manifestation of magic," Qyburn said solemnly. "Like Storm's End. Its walls are said to completely resist sorcery. That may prove crucial in the years to come."
"The stories of Storm's End," Gendry murmured.
Legend held that Storm's End was built by the first Storm King, Durran, in the Dawn Age. He had declared war upon the gods after they slew his kin and guests and shattered his wedding to Elenei. It was said he built six mighty castles before Storm's End, and each was destroyed.
The final castle endured because spells were woven into its very walls, preventing magic from passing through.
"I will watch the changes in climate and seek a way to strengthen your power and safeguard you, Prince," Qyburn promised. "I believe it will not take long."
"I await your good news," Gendry said with a faint smile. "But take care of yourself, Master Qyburn."
"You may rest assured, Prince. I am old, but I still fight for your cause. A soldier's battlefield is the plain. Mine is the laboratory and the web of informants," Qyburn said with quiet pride.
"There is one more matter, Prince. Intelligence reports that House Stark is heading south. Great Lord Eddard, his two daughters, his bastard, and a hundred guards."
"The wolf runs south," Gendry said. He had expected as much. The King trusted no one fully.
Still, Eddard had made small adjustments. He had brought his bastard and increased his guard by fifty. It would not change the balance of power, but the old wolf had grown a little more cautious.
"Prince, that is not what I meant," Qyburn said awkwardly.
"You wish to study the Starks?" Gendry asked, giving him a sharp look. A true mad scholar.
"The old gods do not shine upon the lands of summer," Qyburn said eagerly. "If the opportunity arises, I could act. Of all the great houses, the Starks have the most tales of magic. They speak of wolf spirits and ancient gifts. Consider Storm's End. Some believe the Children of the Forest aided in its construction, weaving their magic into the walls to withstand the storms. Others say a young boy helped, the one who would later be known as Brandon the Builder, ancestor of the Starks."
"Enough, my maester," Gendry said. "Restrain your curiosity. Focus on the present."
"I understand, Prince. I only meant it as a possibility," Qyburn corrected himself. Still, with the old wolf coming south, there might be a chance.
"If only Marwyn were here," Qyburn sighed. "My work would progress twice as fast. Working with someone of like mind is a rare joy."
Marwyn, like Qyburn, was considered an oddity within the Citadel. He wore a Valyrian steel link, proof of his deep study of magic and the arcane.
"Daenerys is here. He would come to see the last true dragon," Gendry said with certainty.
"I believe he would. Though he is unpredictable, and he may not even be in Oldtown now," Qyburn replied. "The Citadel is no safe haven, and Marwyn is no fool."
"The gray sheep you mentioned?"
"Yes, Prince. The Citadel strives for a world without magic or dragons. They forbid maesters from studying sorcery. Such pursuits are considered disgraceful, even madness. Fortunately, those archmaesters lack the courage to kill outright. They prefer to suppress through rules and excuses."