The Reader, Rodrik Harlaw, rowed his little boat through the green water. Each stroke of the oars seemed heavy.
He saw the outline of the Iron Fleet. The familiar longships looked like a school of stranded fish, floundering in silence and helplessness.
When he boarded the Iron Victory, the Ironborn on deck all stared at him—the man they saw as a coward—with fierce, angry eyes.
Victarion Greyjoy stood at the bow, motionless, as if forged from iron.
His voice was hoarse. "Harlaw."
Rodrik Harlaw wasted no words. He simply repeated Suleiman's message.
In a flat, emotionless tone, he looked into Victarion Greyjoy's eyes. "The boy wants the heads of two men."
"One is yours, Lord Commander. The other is your brother, Aeron Greyjoy."
The demand was, in essence, a declaration of war that flatly rejected any negotiation. It stripped away every pretense and laid the most naked bloodlust on the table. For a moment, the angry curses of the Ironborn on deck grew louder and louder.
Rodrik Harlaw turned his head toward the tranquil lake. He had nothing more to say. "Prepare for battle, Lord Commander."
Dunstan Drumm strode forward. Sorrow and elation mingled on his weather-beaten face. "Ha!"
"Good! Good! Excellent!!!"
The thing he had feared most hadn't happened. He had worried that the Riverlanders would accept the Gold Dragons and let them leave in peace.
If that happened, the hatred his son, Dennis Drumm, bore would sink forever into his heart, turning into a cold stone.
Now, that stone had been set ablaze.
Dunstan Drumm drew his Valyrian Steel Sword, raised it high, and roared, "Blood for blood!
"Blood for blood!!!"
The Ironborn roared with him. At last, battle was upon them, and their pent-up fury burst forth in an instant.
"Bloodbath!"
"Bloodbath!!"
"Bloodbath!!!"
They pounded their shields