The Narrow Sea stretched endlessly beneath a bright sky, but beauty meant nothing now. The Telescope was being hunted.
Two pirate longships sliced through the water with terrifying speed, their black sails billowing as they closed in. If they managed to drag the Telescope into the twisting channels of the Stepstones, all would be lost. Those narrow waterways were deathtraps where maneuvering was impossible and escape hopeless.
Gendry watched grimly. Most Myrmen aboard had olive-toned skin and dark hair, their Rhoynar heritage visible in their features. The crew was skilled but not bred for war—nothing like the brutal pirates closing in.
The longships flanked the Telescope on both sides. Their black banners flapped in the wind, marked with crude sigils. Ballistas thudded loudly as they launched iron grappling hooks tied to thick ropes. Arrows followed, whistling like vicious insects. Within moments, ladders slammed down across the Telescope's rails.
"Whoosh! Whoosh!"
The Myrmen fought back, firing their poisoned bolts in a deadly rain. Several pirates toppled into the sea, crimson staining the water as sharks began circling. But the pirate attack was relentless.
"Loose arrows!" Captain Dunster roared. "Passengers, behind the mast! Stay down!"
The Lookout and navigator shouted instructions while hastily reloading crossbows. Men fumbled with short blades and daggers, but the pirates' ballistas were overpowering. Their heavy bolts tore into the deck, punching deep holes into the wood. Splinters flew everywhere.
"I should have hired longbowmen!" Captain Dunster shouted angrily. "Crossbows are too damn slow!"
He was right. For every bolt fired, a trained archer could shoot three arrows. Crossbows were deadly and had deep penetration—but their reload time was a liability. Especially now.
Another volley of ballista bolts slammed into the mast. Several Westerosi passengers screamed and dove for cover, abandoning their weapons entirely. Gendry narrowly dodged a bolt the size of a spear. Qyburn grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him toward the stern.
"A man cannot survive a ballista shot!" he hissed. "Move!"
The Myrmen line collapsed rapidly under the brutal barrage. Panic spread like fire.
Then came the second wave.
Pirates surged over the ladders—shouting, howling, snarling. They held shields over their heads as they climbed, ignoring the fate of those struck down. Their blades glinted. Their eyes burned with bloodlust.
Sea battles were unlike land battles. There was nowhere to run. No place to hide. Once the enemy boarded your ship, your fate hinged on moments.
"It's over," one Myr sailor whispered in terror before being cut down.
The pirates swept across the deck like a tide. The navigator tried to rally the crew, but a pirate buried a short sword in his chest, silencing him instantly.
Gendry and Qyburn retreated to the stern with several panicked passengers. Even the bravest among them wept or prayed.
Qyburn muttered darkly, "I truly should have stayed in Westeros and found a minor lord who needed a Maester. Why must I suffer this at my age?"
"Let's wait," Gendry whispered, eyes cold. "And watch."
On the deck, the slaughter continued.
Pirates moved with frightening skill—like wolves among frightened sheep. Several Myrmen dropped their weapons and knelt in surrender. Captain Dunster stood shaking, his face pale as chalk.
"Drop your weapons!" a pirate barked.
"Get down and kneel!"
Metal clattered across the deck as weapons fell from trembling hands.
Gendry slid behind a stack of crates near the stern. He counted the pirates. Twelve on deck, at least six more controlling the longships—eighteen total. Most wore leather or light armor for easy movement. Only one stood out.
The leader.
He jumped onto the deck with the swagger of someone who had killed often—and enjoyed it.
"I am the storm!" he shouted.
He was tall, with long purple hair and a mouth full of gold teeth. His black scale armor gleamed menacingly. Dual swords hung from his belt. His presence alone made the Myrmen flinch.
He kicked the navigator's corpse aside. "Why all the swords and screaming? I am merciful… to those who pay."
He turned to Dunster. "You have good cargo. Myr craftsmen. Spices. Perfumes. These will fetch a fine price. And you? I can ransom."
Captain Dunster swallowed hard. "Good sir… please… I can offer an additional ransom. I have collateral in Myr—real collateral."
The pirate leader slapped him across the face, laughing coldly. "Fool. Pirates don't bargain."
He snapped his fingers. "Half of you—search the hold. I want to know exactly what I've captured. The rest stay with me."
Six pirates disappeared below deck. Six remained on the deck with the leader.
"Besides cargo," the leader said, "you also have passengers."
His predatory eyes swept across the Westerosi passengers. Most were blond or fair-haired—easy to distinguish from the Myrmen.
"Oh? What do we have here?" He approached them, sneering. "Ugly, old, fat… worthless. Lyseni women won't pay gold for this."
A short, portly Westerosi merchant scrambled forward. "Please, sir! Spare me! Take all I have! My coin, my goods—"
The pirate leader laughed. "If I kill you, they're mine anyway."
He shoved the merchant aside.
Then he noticed someone behind the group.
Qyburn.
"An old man?" the pirate leader scoffed. "Old men aren't even worth the food they eat."
He grabbed Qyburn by the sleeve and yanked him forward.
Qyburn held up his hands calmly. "I beg your pardon. I am not merely an old man. I trained as a physician at the Citadel in Westeros. I can still be useful."
"You? Useful?" the pirate scoffed. "You're more likely to die of old age in a week."
He tightened his grip, preparing to throw Qyburn overboard.
The old man began to plead—skillfully, pitifully. The pirate burst out laughing.
"Fine, old man! I'll let you live. For now. After I collect treasure and flesh, then you may meet the sea."
He shoved Qyburn aside like discarded cargo.
Then his gaze fell on someone else.
"You. Boy."
Gendry.
Hidden behind others, but impossible to hide his build.
The leader walked toward him, studying him with greedy eyes.
"Take off that iron mask," the pirate demanded. "You're big. Strong. Your voice sounds young, but the women of Lys pay handsomely for boys with bodies like yours."
Gendry touched the edge of the mask. It stayed in place.
Then he moved.
Not backward.
Forward.
His hand closed around the short-handled mace behind him.
In a single, fluid motion he had practiced a thousand times at the forge, he swung.
All his strength. All his focus. All the power he had ever put into hammering steel.
He aimed for the pirate leader's temple.
The one place the scale armor did not protect.
He remembered the feeling from the smithy—when metal, fire, and strength united perfectly into a single strike.
This was that strike.
This was his moment.
Because if he missed, he would die. Qyburn would die. Every Westerosi passenger would likely die or be sold.
But Gendry did not think of those things.
He thought only of aim.
Precision.
Force.
He brought the hammer down—
With the fury of a storm.