Victarion Greyjoy could imagine the fury and endless humiliation awaiting him when he returned to Pyke if he retreated without permission.
Never retreat, never surrender. That was the shackle Balon Greyjoy had clamped on them all.
Now, all he could do was keep sending ravens, one after another, to report the dire situation back to Pyke.
He could only hope to persuade his stubborn brother to order a retreat.
But the ravens flew, and no reply came.
Every day, every moment of waiting was agony.
He could feel how dire the situation had become. He could feel his soldiers' morale and fighting spirit steadily fading.
Victarion Greyjoy rose and paced restlessly back and forth inside the tent.
He was running out of time. Every passing minute and second brought him one step closer to the annihilation of his entire army.
Just then, the tent flap was yanked open, and the damp, bitterly cold wind of Riverrun swept inside.
Rodrik Harlaw, the Reader, burst in. His face, usually tinged with a scholar's melancholy, was now flushed red, seared by anger and anxiety.
He began with a roar, his voice drowning out the howling wind outside the tent. "Why haven't you given the order yet!"
"If we don't leave now, it'll be too late, Commander!"
Rodrik Harlaw strode up to Victarion Greyjoy, meeting his fierce gaze without fear.
"We've already wasted too much time! Once the Riverlanders make their move, our way home will be cut off completely!"
Victarion Greyjoy stopped pacing. The muscles in his face, carved by the wind and waves at sea, tightened.
He tried to speak, his mouth opening and closing, but all that came out was a heavy breath.
At last, he forced out a muffled reply. "I'm waiting for a raven from Pyke, Harlaw."
Rodrik Harlaw's