"As long as we Ironborn live, the Iron Islands will endure." King Balon's voice echoed through the hall like a hammer striking a reef.
The captains summoned to the meeting, weather-beaten men with skin steeped in sea salt, exchanged glances, then rose one by one from their rough wooden chairs.
They dropped to one knee with their right hands over their hearts, iron bracelets scraping softly against leather armor. In that moment of silence, only the crackle of torches and the moan of the sea wind through the windows filled the hall.
At the sight, a barely perceptible flicker of satisfaction crossed Balon's somewhat sunken eyes. He simply nodded and, without another word, turned and strode steadily out of Pyke's cold, gloomy hall.
That night, the harbor of Pyke, ruled by House Greyjoy, blazed with light. Torches and oil lamps illuminated the surrounding waters.
The Ironborn, men and women, young and old, were busy carrying the last supplies aboard the longships.
Sacks of hard bread, salted meat and fish, wooden barrels of weak ale, bundles upon bundles of arrows, and heavy canvas for repairing sails.
The harbor rang with voices and shouted orders. Many of these Ironborn had been called up at short notice and had not been to sea in years, their faces showing a touch of unfamiliar excitement or unease.
Their destination this time was the North, a cold, barren land with little plunder to be had, so these older men, long since relegated to the rear, had been assigned to the task.
Most of the true elite, experienced raiders still young and strong, the fiercest of the Ironborn, had been placed under Asha's command by Balon and sent toward the wealthy Reach.
Although Victarion was Balon's own younger brother, Balon did not truly trust him and remained