A life at sea was rarely a gentle one, and even a swift galley occasionally found itself tossed by the whims of the tide.
Below deck, the line between day and night blurred. Drifting in the murky space between waking and sleep, Gendry dreamt of the great stone workshop on Steel Street. He wore his heavy leather apron, his arms bare and slick with sweat, bringing his hammer down on glowing steel. The air was thick and blistering, like the maw of a dragon.
Then the forge melted away. He dreamt of his mother. Her hair was a shock of yellow, and she was singing a soft, lulling melody. But when he tried to look at her, her face was smeared and indistinct, lost to the fog of time.
Mother.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes in the dark. That gentle, maternal warmth was long gone. In this ruthless, chaotic world, he needed to murder the boy inside him if he wanted to survive.
But the dream did not last. Reality shattered it.
Frantic shouting erupted from the deck above. The heavy thud of boots hammered against the ceiling, accompanied by the clatter of weapons and panicked voices echoing down the narrow corridors.
What now? Gendry thought, shaking off the last dregs of sleep. The voyage had been smooth; they should have been nearing the Bay of Myr.
He strapped the cold iron half-mask over his face and hooked the short-handled warhammer onto the back of his belt. It was a pity he had left the bull helm behind, and he had no armor of his own. If it came to it, he would be fighting in nothing but a tunic. Still, in a brutal, cramped melee, a spiked warhammer was a far deadlier companion than a longsword.
Captain Dunstan had explained their route days ago. After taking on fresh water and provisions at Tarth, the Spyglass was meant to skirt the northern edge of the Stepstones, giving the islands a wide berth. The Stepstones were a lawless jagged chain of rocks, infested with cutthroats and slavers.
Pirates.
Gendry threw his cabin door open and nearly collided with Qyburn, who had also been roused by the commotion.
"Let's get up there," Gendry said, taking the narrow stairs two at a time. Qyburn hurried after him.
"Do not throw your life away, child," the old maester hissed from behind, his voice tight but pragmatic. "Blacksmiths, sailors, and physicians are highly prized. Even if we fall into pirate hands, our lives are not in immediate danger!"
"Perhaps," Gendry shot back over his shoulder. "But I worry what else they trade in."
A young, powerfully built boy with a handsome face was prime merchandise in the slave markets. A smith might fetch a few silver pieces, but an exotic Westerosi boy sold to the pillow houses of Lys would fetch his weight in gold. A fate worse than death.
Qyburn blanched, the grim reality settling over his features.
Gendry burst onto the deck. The sky was a brilliant, indifferent blue, dotted with a few wispy clouds. The sea mirrored it, vast and glittering. When the ocean wasn't raging, she was as beguiling as a woman with sapphire eyes.
On the horizon, the jagged, grey silhouettes of the Stepstones pierced the sky, a treacherous maze of sea stacks and winding channels. It was a barren, godforsaken place, claimed by a dozen Free Cities and held by none, leaving it as a permanent haven for corsairs.
There was no time to admire the scenery. Two dark shapes were tearing across the water, closing the distance with terrifying speed. They were painted longships, cutting through the swells like loose arrows fired straight at the Spyglass.
"Corsairs! Corsairs from the rocks!" the lookout shrieked from the crow's nest, hauling wildly on the ship's bell. The frantic, metallic clanging snapped the rest of the crew to attention.
"Gods damn them!" Captain Dunstan spat, gripping the rail so hard his knuckles turned white. "We're almost past Tyrosh! Once we clear Tyrosh, the Bay of Myr is safe water! How did they catch us out here?"
"Can we outrun them?" the captain barked at his sailing master.
"No chance, Captain," the sailing master said grimly. "We're sitting too low in the water. A galley this heavy can't outmaneuver a raiding longship!"
"Then we have no choice. Quiet down, you dogs!" Dunstan roared at his panicking crew. "Arm yourselves! We send these sea-rats to the bottom!"
The Myrish were notoriously mediocre fighters and passable sailors at best, but their craftsmanship was legendary. The crew didn't bother drawing swords. Instead, they moved with grim efficiency, unlocking heavy wooden chests and passing out Myrish repeating crossbows, marvels of engineering capable of firing three bolts in rapid succession.
"Keep them off the deck! If it comes to blades, they'll butcher us!" The Myrish sailors drew poisoned daggers and short swords for their off-hands, their eyes darting nervously toward the approaching raiders.
"Hold your nerve, Captain!" the sailing master shouted, hoisting his own heavy crossbow.
"Captain! Hand me a mail shirt!" Gendry demanded, shoving his way through the scrambling sailors to reach Dunstan.
The captain turned, taking in the sight of the boy. Thick black hair, piercing blue eyes behind a crude iron mask, and shoulders broad enough to belong to a man grown.
"Take this, boy," Dunstan grunted, shoving a Myrish crossbow into Gendry's chest rather than armor. "Mind the bolts. The tips are painted with manticore venom."
Every able-bodied passenger was being conscripted. Even old Qyburn was handed a lighter crossbow, which he inspected with clinical fascination. A crossbow was a terrifying equalizer, an engine of death that required little training but delivered devastating force.
"My thanks," Gendry muttered, finding a battered, slightly undersized ringmail shirt in an open crate and pulling it over his head. It was tight across his chest, but in a chaotic melee, any steel was better than none.
The Spyglass braced for impact. The ideal tactic was to turn the deck into a slaughterhouse of bolts before the pirates could even board.
The two longships split, moving to flank the merchant cog and cut off any retreat toward the rocky shoals. A bloody clash was unavoidable.
The pirates were close enough now that Gendry could see their violently dyed hair, Tyroshi purple and crimson, and the crude, mocking banners snapping from their masts. The longships boasted iron rams at their prows, but to Gendry's mild relief, the corsairs were angling to board, not to splinter the Spyglass and sink her precious cargo.
"Surrender the ship and the hold, and we'll leave you the longboats!" a pirate roared across the narrowing stretch of water. "Wine, spice, timber, Myrish lace... we know what a fat little merchantman like you is carrying!"
"I'd sooner beg the Stranger's forgiveness! My creditors will kill me if I lose this cargo!" Dunstan screamed back, signaling his men to loose.
Before the captain's words even faded, the heavy thwack of a pirate ballista split the air. Thick hempen ropes tipped with iron grappling hooks bit savagely into the rails of the Spyglass.
The longships surged forward, closing the final gap. They had never intended to let anyone walk away.
"Loose! Fire your quarrels!" Captain Dunstan roared, his eyes bloodshot with terror and rage.
The corsairs would show no mercy to those who resisted. The people aboard the Spyglass were now fighting for their lives.