The outer walls of Oldstones had fallen completely.
The smell of blood mingled with dust, and despair clogged every throat.
Tytos Blackwood, who had repelled the first wave of attacks, leaned against the cold stone wall. A tearing pain pulsed from the wound in his waist. He pressed down hard with one hand, but the warm blood seeping between his fingers would not stop.
Raymun Darry's voice was hoarse. One of his arms hung limply at his side, clearly broken. "My lord, you need to rest."
Tytos shook his head and swept his gaze over the survivors packed into the courtyard. There were fewer than three hundred now—soldiers, servants, farmers, blacksmiths, stablehands. Every man who could wield a weapon was here, and every one of them was wounded.
Patrick Mallister, the boy who had insisted on becoming his squire, was carrying a longsword on his thin shoulders. His cheeks were smeared with dust and blood, and his eyes held a determination beyond his years.
The women and children had been moved to the innermost hall. Their stifled sobs mingled with the pained groans of the wounded, forming a mournful dirge for the end of the world.
Outside the castle, the Ironborn's taunts surged like an unceasing tide. A rough, booming voice cut through the din from the other side of the broken wall. It was Dagmer "Cleftjaw."
"Tytos Blackwood!
"Surrender! Kneel before King Balon and swear your fealty!"
"We might even spare your warriors! Put them to work breaking stone in the mines! Salt Wives in our beds, or rowers on our ships! This is the Drowned God's mercy!"
Dead silence fell over the castle. Every face was marked by a different expression.
Raymun Darry tightened his grip on his sword hilt, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Lord Tytos..."