The Narrow Sea stretched beneath vast skies as the pirate fleet hunted.
The Far-Seer was trapped in the channel above the Stepstones. Once a pirate longship managed to tow her into the narrow passages between the islands, there would be no chance of escape.
Gendry noticed that most of the Myrish sailors had olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes, nothing like the people of Lys. Many believed the Myrish were close kin to the Rhoynar.
Two pirate longships closed in from either side, their sails and banners dyed black. Grappling hooks attached to thick ropes were launched from heavy crossbows, followed by massive bolts. As the longships drew nearer, boarding ladders flew across as well. There were too many hooks and ladders coming too fast for the sailors to tear them all down.
"Whoosh!" "Whoosh!"
Myrish sailors returned fire amid the rain of bolts. Several pirates were struck, their screams of pain cut short as they tumbled into the sea, their bodies left to feed the sharks.
"Fire! Keep the passengers back!" Captain Dunstan shouted, while the lookout and navigator directed the crew's counterattack. Daggers, short swords, and crossbows were the Myrish staples. But the pirates' heavy crossbows were fiercer still, steadily crushing the Myrish resistance.
"I should've hired longbowmen," Dunstan muttered bitterly. Crossbows were slow, and he hadn't bought many of the expensive triple-shot models. A bowman could loose three arrows in the time it took a crossbowman to fire one. That was the longbow's strength. Crossbows hit harder, but they were slow to reload and awkward to use.
As the heavy bolts slammed into the ship's planks, most of the Westerosi passengers abandoned their crossbows and ducked for cover. Gendry dodged nimbly, but before he could fire many shots, old Qyburn waved him back. Flesh and bone could not stand against ballista bolts. After several volleys, the Myrish line began to crumble.
More pirates, shields raised, ignored their fallen comrades and swarmed aboard from every direction, climbing ladders and ropes with practiced ease. They were well trained, and once the fight turned to close quarters, the Myrish sailors proved clumsy by comparison.
War was not a game. It was blood and fire, courage and experience.
The Myrish defense collapsed almost at once. Even the feared Myrish crossbows were not enough. The sailors at the front lacked the pirates' killing intent, and the hastily armed passengers were no true warriors.
Gendry saw fear spreading across the faces of the captain, the navigator, and the crew. Once a sea battle turned into boarding combat, it became fast and merciless. This was not land. There was nowhere to run. The Westerosi passengers were worse still, retreating to the stern, sweat and tears pouring freely.
"My luck truly is cursed," Maester Qyburn muttered under his breath, though he remained outwardly calm. The old man and the young one crouched together near the stern. "Can you swim? If it comes to it, try to escape that way. I've lived long enough. You're still young."
"Watch what happens," Gendry whispered.
"Kill them! A fine feast!" the pirates roared.
Their blades moved like a storm. The Myrish navigator fell first, cut down while trying to resist, followed by several others who were too slow to react. The rest of the Myrish sailors didn't last long. One by one, they dropped their weapons. Only Captain Dunstan remained standing, his face drained of color.
"Drop your weapons and armor! Kneel!"
"Drop them! Get down!"
Short swords, daggers, armor, and crossbows clattered heavily onto the deck. Gendry slipped into a hidden corner. His short-handled warhammer lay close by, but the armor was far too conspicuous to keep on now. The Myrish sailors knelt in front, heads bowed, with the Westerosi passengers behind them.
"One… two… three…" Gendry counted silently. "…twelve."
There were about a dozen pirates. For ease of movement, they wore leather armor instead of heavy plate.
"I am the Storm!" the pirate leader roared as he stepped aboard.
He was tall, with purple-dyed hair and a mouth full of gold teeth that gleamed with hunger. Black scale armor covered his body, and he wielded two long swords. The look he gave Captain Dunstan was cold and lifeless, like a corpse's stare. A simpler tactic would have been to ram the ship and smash its oars, but clearly they wanted the vessel intact.
"Why bother with all this bloodshed?" the pirate leader said, stepping on the navigator's corpse before kicking it aside. Blood spread across the deck. "These sailors are not slaves, nor slavers. They're experienced free men of Myr. Leave the cargo behind and you may live. I'll collect a generous ransom."
"Well?" he said arrogantly. "What do you think, Captain?"
"My lord, have mercy," Captain Dunstan said, forcing a stiff smile. "I'll pay you an additional ransom. But this cargo must go to Myr. It's pledged as collateral in my vault."
"As everyone knows, pirates never bargain."
The gold-toothed pirate slapped Captain Dunstan hard across the face. "That should wake you up."
"Spread out. Send a few men to check the hold and inspect the cargo. The rest of you stay here with me."
Gendry quickly counted the pirates. Some were still handling the longship. The rest had split into two groups, six in each. Among them, only the gold-toothed pirate truly stood out as dangerous. Broad, powerful, confident.
This was the moment. Strike, or wait?
"Wise captain," the gold-toothed pirate said lazily. "You've got more than cargo aboard. Passengers too. Westerosi, am I right?"
He glanced around. Besides the Myrish sailors, there were clearly people from Westeros. You could tell at a glance. Most Westerosi bore Andal features: fair hair, green or blue eyes.
"Yes, my lord," Captain Dunstan stammered, sweat pouring down his face. Compared to himself and the Myrish sailors, these Westerosi passengers were in far worse shape. Sending messengers to King's Landing to demand ransom was too troublesome. Selling people or killing them outright was far simpler.
The gold-toothed pirate walked straight toward the Westerosi passengers. Those at the back instinctively huddled together, unintentionally shielding Qyburn and Gendry.
"Damn it," he cursed. "Ugly ones, old ones. Not a single pretty boy or girl among them. Hard to get a good price from the Lysene like this."
"My lord, please don't kill me!" a short, plump Westerosi merchant begged desperately. "I'll give you all my goods, all my money!"
"Give me money?" The gold-toothed pirate burst out laughing. "If I kill you, the goods are mine anyway."
"And what's this?" He noticed Qyburn at the very back. "An old man too? Old men are the least valuable of all."
He stepped up to Qyburn and looked him over carefully. Qyburn sensed Gendry's tension and subtly signaled him to stay still. Gendry shifted his stance, not out of fear, but to move closer to the short-handled warhammer.
"My lord, please forgive me," Qyburn said calmly. "I am no ordinary old man. I studied at the Citadel of Westeros. I am a trained Healer. I may yet be of use to you."
He spoke without groveling, neither servile nor arrogant. The pirate paused, momentarily taken aback.
"You talk well, old man," the pirate sneered. "But you're too old. Keeping you alive would cost me more than you're worth. Go say hello to the sea for me. Maybe the mermaids need a Healer."
He grabbed Qyburn by the sleeve, ready to fling him overboard.
Qyburn immediately began pleading, which only made the pirate laugh louder.
"Pathetic old man. Fine, I'll let you live a little longer. You amused me. Once I'm done looting, then you can go meet the sea."
He turned his gaze to Gendry.
"And you, kid. Take off that iron mask. You've got a solid build and a voice clear as steel. As long as your face isn't covered in scars or pockmarks, the Lys women will love you."
Even hiding at the back, Gendry's physique stood out.
"As you command, my lord," Gendry said, raising a hand to his mask.
The mask didn't come off.
In the same motion, his body flowed forward. His hand closed around the warhammer, and with explosive speed, he swung.
Wait.
Watch.
Wait.
Watch.
The gold-toothed pirate wore black scale armor. If this blow failed to kill him, there would be no second chance.
In that instant, Gendry found the same focus he had at the forge. All his strength, all his will, gathered into a single point.
This was the finest strike he had ever made.
...
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