"Verehos, you assured us all that taking Oldtown would be easy. But now we've suffered heavy losses without even breaking through to their docks."
"Are you just going to stand there and watch?"
Earl Drumm of Old Pyke roared in frustration at Verehos, who stood at the bow looking as unconcerned as ever.
House Drumm had been particularly unlucky. Of the twelve longships they had brought, three had already been burned and sunk by wildfire, and barely a handful of the nearly hundred men aboard had escaped.
Half their remaining ships had also had their sails set alight by the barrage of flaming arrows. Though the vessels had not burned down, they would scarcely be seaworthy unless they captured Oldtown and made repairs there. Naturally, he was anxious.
He had brought almost all of House Drumm's finest warriors with him. If their losses grew too severe, his house might well be wiped out by another even if they made it back to the Iron Islands.
The Iron Islands were small, but disputes between their houses had almost never ceased. In particular, every Kingsmoot in the old days had invariably plunged the islands into bloodshed.
Although no Kingsmoot had been held for thousands of years, friction and struggles between the houses had never stopped.
Several other Iron Islands nobles in much the same predicament voiced their agreement. After all, since Aegon had burned Harrenhal and destroyed House Harren during the War of Conquest, even the most stubborn nobles of the Iron Islands had not dared oppose House Targaryen and its Great Dragons.
They had only come eagerly to Oldtown this time because Verehos had blinded them with vast gifts of wealth and grand promises. Yet they had already been routed before even breaking through the chain across the river, leaving them