"I know," Balon interrupted him, his tone grave. "Get everyone aboard the ships. Prepare for battle."
His voice sounded no different from usual, as though he were merely giving orders for an ordinary sortie at sea.
"But..." The Ironborn hesitated, his throat bobbing before he finally spoke. "The longships we have left probably won't withstand dragonfire..."
"No buts." Balon turned and fixed the Ironborn with a cold stare. "That is an order. The Ironborn are born at sea and die at sea. We have never fled without a fight."
The Ironborn opened his mouth, but in the end said nothing. He turned and ran down the tower.
Balon looked back up at the sky. King Ghidorah was circling above the castle, her three heads slowly turning toward Pyke's towers, as though choosing the target of her first strike.
He tightened his grip on the stone balustrade and silently recited the words of the Old Way: What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.
Then he slowly returned to his room and took down the battle axe that had always hung on the wall. A cold gleam flashed along its blade in the faint light spilling in from outside.
Viserys circled above Pyke on King Ghidorah, his cold gaze sweeping over the harbor below. Beneath the gloomy sky, the sea wind swept downward, carrying the briny tang of the water, yet it could not dispel the murderous tension of the slaughter about to erupt.
Dozens of longships still lay at the wharf, their sails already raised. The Ironborn were hurriedly loading the last batches of arrows and spears aboard.
The taut expression on every Ironborn face only heightened the tension.
"Brother, look at those Ironborn. They're trying to put out to sea," Rhaenys said as she flew