Traveling by sea was never truly comfortable. Even on a ship as swift as the Telescope, the constant rocking of the waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes sudden—made rest difficult. The daylight and darkness below deck never changed, for the cabin remained dim at all hours. Time blurred, turning every nap into a muddled half-dream.
Gendry lay on his cot, half-awake, half-lost in memory. In his dream, he stood once more in the glowing heat of the smithy. Sparks danced around him as he hammered a blade to shape—each strike ringing with purpose. He wore his leather apron, arms bare and shimmering with sweat. Even in a dream, he could smell the familiar scents of roaring flame and hot iron.
The forge morphed, twisting into a gentler scene. Soft humming filled the air. His mother appeared beside him—yellow hair, warm hands, singing an old lullaby. But her face was blurred now, as if time had smudged her features with careless fingers.
"Mother…" Gendry whispered, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. The boy inside him still longed for her, but the world he lived in had no room for childish softness. That tenderness had died long ago the moment she did.
His dream shattered.
Screams. Shouting. Boots pounding overhead. The ship quivered under sudden, violent impacts.
Gendry's eyes flew open.
"What's going on?" he muttered, already rising. The Telescope had been making steady progress toward Myr—there should have been no reason for panic.
He strapped his iron mask into place and buckled his short-handled mace against his lower back. He cursed softly; he had left behind his great bull helm and heavy armor. If this was a fight, he would be forced into brutal close-quarters combat. Against unarmored pirates, a mace was far deadlier than a sword—but armor would have made him nearly unstoppable.
He shoved open the cabin door—and nearly collided with Qyburn, who looked pale and half-dressed.
"You heard the noise too," Gendry said.
"Hard not to," Qyburn exhaled shakily. "Let us see for ourselves. And child—don't be reckless. If these are pirates, blacksmiths, sailors, and healers are useful. Pirates don't usually harm men they can sell or exploit."
"I'm not worried about being killed," Gendry said grimly. "I'm worried about being sold. Pirates from these waters sell boys to Lys. A young man like me… I'd fetch a fortune."
Qyburn paled further. He knew Gendry was right. A blacksmith was already valuable—but a strong, handsome youth sold into the infamous pleasure houses of Lys was worth more gold than a horse made of pure silver.
They climbed quickly to the deck.
The sky opened wide and brilliant above them—blue stretching endlessly, scattered with small white clouds. The sea below glittered like molten sapphire. For a moment, everything was as beautiful as a painting.
But to the east, Gendry saw them.
The Stepstones.
Jagged gray islands rising from the ocean like the broken teeth of some drowned giant. Twisted waterways snaked between them, a labyrinth of hidden shoals and shallow reefs. No proper kingdom claimed the Stepstones for long—pirates did.
And pirates ruled it still.
Gendry's heart hardened. There—cutting through the waves like predators—were two small black silhouettes approaching rapidly.
Longships.
Fast, narrow, painted bright like Tyroshi warriors. Their hulls carved the sea with terrifying speed.
"It's pirates! Pirates!" the Lookout screamed, ringing the alarm bell with frantic strength.
The entire ship snapped awake at once.
Captain Dunster burst from the helm, cursing violently. "Damn it all! We were nearly at Tyrosh! One more day and we would've been safe in Myr's waters!"
"Can we outrun them?" he barked at the navigator.
The navigator's face was grim. "No chance, Captain. Their longships are lighter, faster, and far more agile. We're full of cargo. They'll catch us easily."
Captain Dunster's expression tightened with resignation and fury. "Then we fight."
His voice boomed across the deck.
"Quiet down! Arm yourselves! We'll smash these pirates before they smash us!"
The crew sprang into action, distributing weapons stored in locked chests. Though Myrmen were not known for bravery or sword skill, they were exceptional craftsmen—and their crossbows were notorious across Essos.
"Don't let them board us!" the navigator yelled. "We can't match them hand-to-hand!"
Crossbows loaded with poisoned bolts were passed out. Daggers, shortswords, and spare quarrels were tied to belts.
Gendry hurried to the captain. "Captain! I need armor!"
Dunster turned—and paused when he saw the young man before him.
Tall. Solidly built. Masked, with black hair and storm-blue eyes. His voice still held the tone of a young adult, but his presence radiated strength.
Dunster tossed him a light breastplate. "Take it, lad! And be careful—the bolts are all poisoned."
He then handed Gendry a Myrish crossbow—a compact but deadly weapon capable of firing three bolts in rapid succession. Even an untrained man could kill with one of these.
"Thank you," Gendry said, fastening the armor quickly. It was small on him, but better than nothing.
Even Qyburn accepted a crossbow, though he looked like he hoped never to fire it.
The crew assembled on the deck, waiting for the pirate attack. Their only hope was stopping the longships before they could close in.
Gendry looked out again.
The pirates were already forming a predatory ring around them—one longship on each side, cutting off every attempt at escape. The Telescope could not flee into the maze of the Stepstones; it would only run aground and trap them entirely.
A battle was inevitable.
The longships drew closer, and Gendry saw their crews clearly now—painted faces, hair dyed purple and scarlet, spears and axes glinting in the sun. They laughed as they approached, shouting crude threats and promises of plunder.
Many wore nothing but loose trousers and colorful scarves. Others wore stolen armor patched together from various kills. A few held foreign blades—scimitars from Lys, cleavers from the Basilisk Isles.
The pirates raised their banners—skulls, swords, crimson suns. Their battering-ram bows gleamed wickedly.
They wanted the ship intact. Sunk treasure benefitted no one.
One of the pirates cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the narrowing distance:
"Abandon the ship! Leave the cargo, and we'll send you away in a small boat! Wine, spices, silk, lumber—your fat merchant ship is loaded with riches. Surrender and live!"
Captain Dunster spat into the sea.
"Tell them," he growled to the Lookout, "that this ship is my life. I owe money for the cargo. If I lose it, debt collectors will kill me anyway!"
The Lookout shouted the message back loudly.
Before he even finished, the pirates acted.
Ballistas on the longships fired.
Thick ropes with iron grappling hooks soared through the air, whistling like hunting birds before slamming onto the Telescope's deck and railing.
The ships accelerated—charging at them with terrifying precision.
The pirates never intended to let them escape.
"Prepare arms!" Captain Dunster roared. "Shoot! Shoot!"
Crossbows were raised. Bolts clicked into place.
The sailors' hands trembled—but they aimed.
Gendry steadied his breath.
He had hammered steel all his life.
But this was the first time he had ever pointed a weapon at another man.
The longships closed in fast.
The pirates screamed their battle cries.
And the first bolts flew.