A few seabirds stood on the rocks near the shore, tilting their heads as they watched the anchored fleet. The sea breeze streamed Victarion's gray-blue cloak behind him, and his eyes were cold and hard.
He ran a hand over the haft of the battle axe at his waist. It was his favorite weapon, its blade engraved with two Old Tongue letters spelling "Ironborn."
They had waited here for three days, waiting for word from the savages north of the Wall. Every day, he had stood at the prow like this from dawn until dusk, seeming both patient and anxious.
The other Ironborn in the fleet either wiped down their weapons on deck or talked in low voices. The smell of sea salt and tar lingered in the air.
Victarion knew this wait was no longer about plunder and glory, but the survival of the Ironborn. He was ready to carve a path forward with his battle axe.
"Lord Victarion." An Ironborn climbed down from the mast, his face crusted with sea salt and sweat. He looked especially anxious in the dim light, and his voice was urgent. "Scouts have returned to shore. They should have the latest news."
Before long, an Ironborn rowed over in a small boat. As it pitched in the waves, he sprang nimbly onto the deck and hurried to Victarion's side.
He dropped to one knee and reported excitedly, "Lord Victarion, the Wildlings say they're ready. Once they see our signal to attack the Shadow Tower, those at the Great Canyon will strike at the same time. Their forces have already gathered along the edge of the Great Canyon and can attack at any moment."
Victarion stood at the prow, his gaze hard as iron as he looked toward the hazy coastline in the distance.