On the harbor docks of Pyke, the Ironborn, already terrified by King Ghidorah, broke down completely at the sight of the devastation.
Flames and thick smoke swallowed the skies above Pyke. Streams of dragonfire descended like divine punishment, reducing everything they touched to scorched earth. Even the sea seemed to have caught fire, crying out in agony.
They threw down their axes and shortswords and ran desperately away from the harbor. Weapons that had once symbolized Ironborn glory now lay scattered across the ground amid their desperate sobs and screams.
Some ran toward Pyke's stone bridge, hoping to escape into the castle and seek the protection of House Greyjoy, only to find the bridge packed with fleeing crowds. They could not move an inch.
Some had already reached the castle gates, only to find the iron doors firmly shut. No matter how hard they pounded and shouted, the doors would not budge. Others ran toward the beach, trying to find any usable boat-even a piece of driftwood would do-but found only seawater that had already begun to boil.
Others had gone mad. Ignoring the bubbles and steam churning across the surface, they jumped straight into the sea.
They would rather die in the sea than be erased by that shaft of golden light piercing heaven and earth.
After all, if they died in the sea, they believed they could at least go to the Drowned God's Watery Halls.
There, they could reunite with their ancestors and continue sailing through the depths of the sea, singing Ironborn war songs and drinking ale.
This ancient Ironborn faith had now become their only comfort, sustaining them as they made their final choice in despair.
In the Sea Dragon Tower, Balon Greyjoy stood at a high window with an axe in his hand, surveying