These Ironborn were indeed fierce.
Led by Victarion, they charged with howls.
First came a volley of throwing axes, their blades whirling through the air as they tried to disrupt the Targaryen formation.
Most struck the shields in the front rank with dull thuds, but a few flew farther, landing among the rear ranks and causing casualties.
Then the Ironborn raised their round shields with howls, wielding curved swords or long-handled battle axes, and crashed into the Targaryen formation like raging surf against the shore.
Blood and flesh flew.
The clash of blades, the crack of axes splitting shields, and the screams of the dying rang out without end.
Victarion had just used brute strength to hack down an advancing Targaryen shield-bearer, shield and all, when more spears immediately thrust at him from every direction.
He ducked beneath them and withdrew under the cover of several Ironborn guards, panting heavily.
He looked around, his heart growing heavier.
The Targaryen army seemed tireless, advancing step by step in orderly ranks.
Even when they suffered casualties, soldiers from the rear quickly filled the gaps.
The Ironborn's strength lay in sea battles, aboard their longships, in salt water.
Not in fighting these "landlubbers" on dry land.
If they kept grinding away here, their sheer ferocity might hold back the Targaryen advance for a time.
But as time passed, they would be worn down little by little, until every last one of them died here.
They had held the enemy here long enough.
How many of the Ironborn scattered throughout the city could retreat to the docks now depended on their own luck.
Victarion believed he had fulfilled his duty as their leader.
Even after he returned to the Iron Islands, no one could fault his decision.
"Retreat!"
The Ironborn fought as they fell