"In short, your next task is to coordinate with the Iron Fleet of our Iron Islands."
Balon finally turned to face them and said coldly, "Asha will take a hundred ships south. Theon will lead the men hiding the ships, and Victarion will take fifty ships north to wait. Everyone else will stay here with me."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "If Viserys wants to fight, we fight. If we can't win, we retreat. If we can't retreat, we die. Better for the ironborn to die at sea than at home."
Unfortunately, no one answered. Just then, a sea breeze swept through the harbor, setting the banners snapping in the wind.
On Pyke's black banner, the golden kraken glittered in the sunlight, as though it, too, were watching the waters that would soon be engulfed in war.
Balon turned and raised his head to look at the faded tapestry on the wall, embroidered with the words of House Greyjoy: We Do Not Sow.
He clenched his fists.
We Do Not Sow.
He would make Viserys Targaryen-and all of Westeros-remember those words.
Even if the price was the Iron Islands reduced to ashes, Pyke left in ruins, and the life of Balon Greyjoy himself.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in King's Landing, Viserys stood in the Red Keep's study, examining the enormous map of Westeros on the wall.
Varys stood behind him with his hands tucked into his sleeves, his expression as calm as ever.
"Your Grace, word has yet to return from the Iron Islands," he said respectfully, a smile on his face.
"There's no hurry." Viserys placed a finger on Pyke. "The situation in the Seven Kingdoms hasn't fully settled yet. We don't need to turn our attention to the Iron Islands just now. Besides,