Only charred keels remained in Great Wyk's longship docks. Broken masts jutted at angles from the shallows like the ribs of a dead beast.
The ringing of hammers could no longer be heard in the smithies of Oakmont Island, but the once-cold iron had melted into glowing red liquid that flowed beneath the collapsed stone walls.
Dragonfire had licked Saltcliffe's salt pans into gleaming white crystals. When the sea breeze blew, fine grains of salt drifted with the ashes toward the nearby sea.
Even the seabirds that had once circled Blacktyde's cliffs had vanished. Only the ruins of burned-out watchtowers remained, casting twisted shadows in the moonlight.
Waves battered the reefs again and again, while the Ironborn banners scattered through the ruins had long since burned to ash and mingled with the soil, their original colors lost.
At first light the next morning, a pale glow spread across the horizon, but a thin veil of black smoke still shrouded the Iron Islands.
Viserys gently laid down Rhaenys, who was still asleep in his arms, taking the utmost care.
He rose and turned to gaze at the distant ruins of Pyke, where black smoke continued to rise. Its shattered towers and charred walls loomed faintly through the dark haze.
An icy smile crept across his lips. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a deep, bitter chill.
"Balon Greyjoy," he said quietly, his tone flat. "This is the price of your Ironborn's so-called 'We Do Not Sow.'"
Once Rhaenys had rubbed her eyes and fully awakened, Viserys was the first to climb onto King Ghidorah's broad, gold-scaled back.
Meleys and Blackflame let out low roars as well. Almost as one, the three dragons spread their enormous wings, crouched on their powerful legs, then surged into the air, whipping up gusts