The Spyglass cleared the Stepstones without further incident. Terrified of another ambush, Captain Dunstan pushed the crew and the oars to their absolute limits, refusing to drop anchor until the massive, fortified walls of Tyrosh finally appeared on the horizon. They pulled into the harbor only long enough to replenish their depleted fresh water and provisions.
A sprawling, deafening city rose before Gendry's eyes.
Situated at the northeastern tip of the Stepstones, Tyrosh was a fortress metropolis. Its inner walls were forged from fused black dragonstone, a looming legacy of its Valyrian founders. It was vastly larger than Sunspear, the seat of Westeros's Dornish neighbors. From the deck, Gendry could easily spot the imposing Bleeding Tower guarding the harbor and hear the distant, echoing roar of the crowds gathered around the Fountain of the Drunken God.
"So this is the Free Cities," Gendry murmured, leaning against the rail.
The Tyroshi docks were a chaotic blur of commerce and humanity. Chains clinked as overseers drove lines of slaves carrying heavy crates of cargo. Having never left the confines of King's Landing, the sheer scale of the Essosi slave trade was a jarring sight.
He picked out a dozen different peoples in the crowd. Dark-skinned sailors from the Summer Isles worked alongside olive-skinned Myrish and Dornishmen. But the native Tyroshi were the easiest to spot. They were loud, ostentatious, and possessed a garish love of color, dyeing their hair and forked beards in brilliant shades of blue, green, chestnut, pink, crimson, and vermilion.
"Look there. The inner walls," Qyburn said, stepping up beside him. The wind was calm, and most of the exhausted passengers were sleeping below deck. The old maester pointed a bony finger at the black stone. "That is the mark of Old Valyria. Only they could raise military fortifications by melting stone with dragonflame."
Gendry's formal education had begun terribly late for a boy of royal blood. To compensate, Qyburn poured knowledge into him at a relentless pace. To the disgraced maester's immense satisfaction, he quickly discovered that Gendry possessed a startlingly sharp memory and a razor-like intuition, absorbing complex histories as easily as dry earth drinks rain.
"A magnificent ruin," Gendry noted.
The Valyrian Freehold had been centuries ahead of the rest of the world. Dragon roads, fused black walls, obsidian glass candles, and the forty dragonlord families. When the Doom shattered the peninsula, the world had devolved back into a fractured, bloody arena. Even the nomadic Dothraki screamers had risen to terrifying prominence in the vacuum. The Targaryens, who had miraculously survived on Dragonstone, had been merely a minor house among the dragonlords, taking almost none of Valyria's pinnacle blood magic or architectural sorcery with them.
"The Black Wall of Volantis is far grander than Tyrosh's," Qyburn lectured smoothly. "Volantis is the oldest and most populous of the Free Cities."
"Volantis. I saw very few Volantenes in King's Landing."
"We shall visit it one day, Your Grace. Though Volantis bled heavily during the Century of Blood, its foundation remains the deepest. There, you can witness the true scale of Valyrian majesty."
"I look forward to it," Gendry said.
"The achievements of Valyria were rooted in fire and blood. High magic," Qyburn said, a familiar, obsessive gleam returning to his pale eyes. "The archmaesters claim magic is dead. I believe it merely ebbs and flows like the tide. When the dragons died, the tide went out."
"Have you ever actually seen the sparks of true magic?"
"Not yet," Qyburn admitted, offering a slight, embarrassed cough. "But I know it is possible. Though one must not force it. The Targaryens spent the last century desperately trying to hatch petrified dragon eggs, and it brought them nothing but fire and tragedy."
"But if the day comes," Gendry said, glancing at the old man, "if you master the arts of fire and blood, or awaken the storms in my veins, or call the Rhoyne to rise again... I suppose I will share in your glory."
"If only it were so simple," Qyburn chuckled.
As the Spyglass cast off from the Tyroshi docks, the two retreated to their cramped cabin.
"Your Grace, Tyrosh is but one jewel in the Free Cities," Qyburn said, unrolling a weathered parchment map of Essos across the small table. He lowered his voice, adopting the deferential tone of a seasoned councilor. "If we can secure a foothold here in Essos, whether to build our own strength or carve out a domain, the possibilities are limitless."
"You don't need to call me that, Master Qyburn," Gendry said, taking a seat. "I am your student. And a bastard with nowhere to retreat."
"Great empires are born from the dirt. It only requires a man with the vision to forge them," Qyburn insisted gently, tapping the map. "Allow me to clarify the board. Trade, specifically the slave trade, is the beating heart of Essos."
He traced the coastline. "We have left Tyrosh and will soon reach Myr. Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys once bound themselves together as the Triarchy, the Kingdom of the Three Daughters. That alliance is long dead. Today, the three cities constantly sabotage one another, though they all share a mutual hatred of Volantis."
Qyburn's finger moved eastward. "Pentos is the weakest, permanently gelded by Braavos in their last war. Volantis is arrogant, grasping, and entirely friendless. And Braavos stands alone at the top, rich, fiercely independent, and armed with an invincible fleet. Lorath, Qohor, and Norvos are too isolated to concern us now. The true game lies in the endless squabbling between these major powers. And externally, the Dothraki khalasars pose a constant threat, regularly crossing the Rhoyne to pillage."
Gendry studied the borders drawn along the massive River Rhoyne. Qohor controlled the lands between the Qhoyne and Ar Noy. Volantene influence stretched only as far north as the Sorrows. The stretch between Ar Noy and the Sorrows was a lawless buffer zone, heavily infested with river pirates.
"A sharp analysis, Maester Qyburn. Though I doubt the Free Cities are prepared for someone who might want to put a blade to their beloved slave trade. That would mean declaring war on the entire continent."
"Essos operates on entirely different customs, laws, and faiths than Westeros. No single ruler has ever unified this continent," Qyburn noted. "The cities are ruled by obscenely wealthy merchants, and their seats are rarely permanent. Only the titles change."
"Archons, Triarchs, Magisters, or Sealords," Gendry recited.
"Precisely. It is a game of coin and elections." Qyburn dragged his finger down south of Myr. "But here is our opportunity."
"The Disputed Lands," Gendry read.
"Yes. Ever since the Triarchy collapsed, the Three Daughters have bled each other dry fighting over sovereignty of this territory. It is the perfect breeding ground. It feeds and employs dozens of mercenary sellsword companies. Combined with the lawless Stepstones nearby, it is a realm entirely devoid of true masters."
A grand design, Gendry thought dryly, for an army of exactly two men.
He stared at the map. The Disputed Lands had once been incredibly fertile, but generations of scorched-earth warfare had reduced them to a scarred battleground. Still, chaos was a ladder. It would be simple enough to vanish into the ranks of a mercenary company there.
It all comes down to killing in the end. It would be much easier if I had a dragon, Gendry thought.
Later that evening, Gendry sat alone on his bunk, carefully taking stock of his spoils.
One short-handled warhammer.
One suit of black iron scale mail, minus the helm.
He ran a hand over the cold iron scales. It was the armor stripped from the Tyroshi pirate captain he had killed. Plate and scale were the most expensive armors in the world; taking this from a fallen enemy was a massive prize.
Two gold dragons from the Bastard of Driftmark.
Fifty Myrish gold coins from Captain Dunstan.
He weighed the heavy Myrish coins in his palm. They were stamped in the shape of flat ovals, bearing the imprint of a galley. Combined with the handful of silver stags and copper stars he had saved, it was a war chest substantial enough to sustain him for a very long time.
Then there were the gifts from the terrified passengers: the finely crafted Myrish spyglass from the captain, a roll of embroidered tapestry, a small pouch of rare spices, and a lacquered wooden carving.
Gendry packed everything carefully into his sea bag. The brutal fight on the Spyglass had yielded his first true pot of gold.
Through the small porthole, the distant, sprawling silhouette of Myr finally appeared on the horizon. He was ready to disembark.