Balon clenched his fist hard, his knuckles whitening slightly with the effort. The iron anchor pendant in his hand pressed a deep mark into his palm.
The teachings of the Drowned God seemed to echo in his ears: "Take your sustenance from the sea, survive amid the storms." The Ironborn had never won their glory by bending the knee.
Yet against the rumored dragons that blotted out the sky, any resistance might prove as feeble as waves crashing against a reef.
He drew a deep breath and looked out at the churning waters of Ironman's Bay. Those waters were the cradle of the Ironborn, and the battlefield where they had practiced the Old Way for generations.
Besides, he believed a temporary compromise would only serve their long-term survival. The Greyjoy banner could not fall in his generation. The futures of Theon and Asha still depended on the sea to sustain them.
If Viserys truly refused their demands, he could never kill them all, even if his dragonfire could burn through this entire stretch of sea.
When that time came, he would make Viserys understand that every inch of the Iron Islands, every iron ship, was steeped in the blood and defiance of the Ironborn. At the very least, he would make Viserys pay dearly.
Balon looked out the window once more. This time, he almost saw black sails snapping in the wind, almost heard iron ships cutting through the waves. That was the battle song of the Ironborn, and it would never fall silent.
A few days earlier, when news of Harrenhal's fall reached Riverrun, Edmure Tully had been standing on the battlements, gazing down at the castle's moat with a troubled expression.
His hands gripped the crenellations tightly. Several lords of the Riverlands stood behind him, all true vassals