The deck erupted in chaos.
Gendry surged forward like a loosed arrow, the cold iron of his warhammer handle firm in his grip. His heart pounded with a heat almost indistinguishable from the flames of a smithy furnace. Every strike he had ever made against steel, every spark he had seen burst from an anvil, every rhythm of hammer and iron—those instincts now fueled his body.
He became the storm.
He became the hammer.
And the first target of that storm was clear: the Gold-Tooth Pirate Leader.
To break an enemy force, one had to sever the head of the serpent. Gendry knew this without needing to be taught. Instinct, fear, and courage fused in him into a single moment of decisive violence.
He swung.
The spike-studded mace whistled through the air and crashed toward the pirate leader's unprotected temple.
A perfect killing blow.
"BOOM!"
The impact was brutal. Blood burst in a wide spray, painting the pirate leader's cheek and armor red.
But it wasn't perfect.
The man twisted just enough—instinct, skill, or luck—so that the hammer struck the cheekbone instead of the temple. Bone cracked with a sickening crunch. Flesh tore. But the head did not break.
The Gold-Tooth Pirate Leader staggered with a howl of pain, one hand flying to his gushing cheek.
He had been wary of the masked boy—but he had underestimated him.
He would not do so again.
"You little bastard!" he roared. "I'll carve you into pieces and feed you to the sea!"
His voice was slurred by blood. Half of his face looked caved in, the cheekbone visibly crushed. Yet he still stood. He still fought. He still burned with murderous fury.
Gendry cursed inwardly. I should've aimed for the throat. A direct strike there would have ended the pirate instantly.
But there was no time to regret. The battle was already boiling over.
Gendry grabbed a discarded shield from the floor just in time for the counterattack.
The pirate leader lunged.
"DIE!"
Twin longblades flashed like silver lightning, slicing for Gendry's throat and head. The pirate moved with surprising speed for a man who had just taken a warhammer to the face.
Gendry blocked the first strike with his shield—metal screeched against metal. The second blade came from below, forcing him to leap back. The fight had become a whirl of motion. The two clashed again.
Steel rang with a sound like clashing anvils.
This was no test, no training, no staged spar. It was raw combat—bloody and desperate. And in the heart of it, Gendry felt something awaken.
Not fear.
Excitement.
His muscles burned with life. His senses sharpened. His heart thundered not with panic, but with exhilaration. He had always been strong, always fast. What he lacked was battle experience.
But blood did not frighten him.
And pain only sharpened him.
"Dodge—then strike!" he growled to himself, raising his shield.
The pirate leader's wound bled heavily, the crimson flowing down his jaw, soaking into his black scale armor. The powder Qyburn had thrown earlier clung to the wound, making it burn like fire. The pain was blinding. His vision blurred.
Yet he swung with reckless fury, flailing his longblades in deadly arcs.
Gendry ducked left, the blade slicing only air. He dodged right, letting the pirate overextend just slightly. Then he swung the hammer again.
"CLANG!"
The hammer hit armor—but the impact staggered the pirate.
The two pressed back and forth across the deck, locked in a deadly dance. Around them, chaos erupted as the Myr sailors, inspired by the sudden shift in momentum, snatched up their discarded weapons.
"Move!" Qyburn shouted behind Gendry. "Push them back!"
The sailors, trembling but suddenly emboldened by the boy's courage, rallied. They charged at the pirates, shouting wildly, crossbows and daggers in hand.
It was the spark they needed.
Battle momentum had shifted.
The pirate leader saw this and grew even more frenzied.
"Fight me, boy!" he screamed, blood and spit flying.
Gendry found himself driven backward as the pirate's furious strikes rained down. He raised his shield repeatedly, sparks bursting as blades met metal.
"Gendry! Step back!" Qyburn shouted again.
The old Maester hurled something from his sleeve—another small packet of powder.
The packet burst in mid-air.
The powder bloomed like a dirty white cloud.
Some of it went directly into the pirate leader's eyes.
"AAGH!"
The pirate shrieked. His already injured face twisted in agony as the powder inflamed his open wound. His vision, already blurry, now disappeared under a haze of searing pain.
"Cowards! TREACHEROUS COWARDS!" he screamed, slashing blindly.
One of his wild swings grazed Gendry's arm.
A thin line of blood opened along Gendry's forearm, warm and stinging—but not deep.
Gendry barely flinched.
Because this was the moment.
The pirate leader swung again—blind, enraged, off-balance.
Gendry didn't hesitate.
He raised the hammer high over his head.
Then he brought it down.
Hard.
"CRACK!"
The sound was sickening. Final.
The hammer smashed directly into the pirate leader's skull. The man's head split like a crushed melon. Blood, brain, and bone sprayed across the deck in a grisly arc.
The Gold-Tooth Pirate Leader collapsed instantly, his body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence fell for a heartbeat.
Then the deck exploded into motion.
"Kill the rest!" someone shouted.
Without their leader, the remaining pirates fell quickly. They were armed, fierce, and trained—but they wore only leather, and none had helmets. Against maces, crossbows, and furious Myr sailors, they didn't stand a chance.
One pirate tried to retreat. A crossbow bolt took him in the neck.
Another charged at a sailor. Gendry's hammer intercepted him, caving his ribs.
One older pirate hid behind the mast, firing a crossbow with desperate speed. But he had already been wounded multiple times, and his strength was waning.
Gendry raised his shield and advanced.
The pirate fired—missed.
Reloaded—
Too slow.
Gendry swung.
The hammer crushed his skull in a single brutal strike.
The old pirate fell, twitching.
Silence settled again—but this time it was victory.
The deck was littered with dead pirates.
And Gendry stood among them, breathing hard, blood streaking his arm and mask. The Myr sailors stared at him like he was a storm-god come to life.
Below deck, the pirates who had gone to inspect the cargo rushed up—right into a barrage of crossbow bolts fired by the sailors waiting for them. They died before they could reach the surface.
Meanwhile, the two pirate longships floated nearby, confused. They had heard the fighting but not seen the outcome. They expected victory.
Then they saw it.
"Raise his head!" Gendry shouted.
The sailors hesitated—then obeyed. They found a long pole and impaled the Gold-Tooth Pirate Leader's head on it, raising it high over the rail.
Half the skull was smashed. The purple hair still clung to the scalp. The gold tooth gleamed grotesquely.
The pirates on the longships froze.
"That's him!" one of them shouted. "The captain—his head!"
"Did they have their own Mercenaries? How did he die?"
"Doesn't matter—we're leaving! I'm not getting shot full of holes!"
The two pirate ships turned sharply and rowed in the opposite direction … fleeing instead of avenging their captain. They were practical men. With their leader dead and their elite boarding party slaughtered, they saw no point in dying pointlessly.
The Telescope did not pursue.
Nor did the pirates return.
The sea belonged to the living.
Captain Dunster fell to his knees, trembling. "Gods be good… we survived. We actually survived…"
The Myr sailors began cheering, hugging one another, laughing through tears. They didn't bother cleaning the deck—only rushed to get the ship away from the Stepstones as quickly as possible.
Gendry exhaled deeply. His body shook—not from fear, but from the intensity of battle's aftermath. His mind still buzzed with the rush of adrenaline.
He had feared a fight to the death … feared more that reinforcements would arrive.
But luck had favored them.
And his hammer had carried the day.
"Let me see your arm," Qyburn said, pulling back his sleeve. "Good, the blade wasn't poisoned. A shallow cut."
The old Maester sprinkled a grey herbal powder onto the wound.
It burned like fire.
Gendry hissed—but stayed still.
"This is Myr gunpowder-herb," Qyburn explained. "It stings, but it cleans the wound. The same powder I threw earlier."
Gendry nodded. "Thank you."
Qyburn regarded him seriously. "You have the talent of a battlefield commander. Strength, speed, and more importantly—courage and instinct."
Gendry flushed slightly behind the mask. "I only did what was needed."
Captain Dunster approached, eyes red with grateful tears. "You saved my ship. You saved us all. Myr owes you a debt."
The surviving sailors and passengers burst into applause.
"Iron Mask Warrior!" someone shouted.
Gendry stood among them, silent and bloodstained, the hammer still in his hand.
He didn't feel like a hero.
He felt like the storm.